Technical Difficulties
by happysquid008
Summary: The Enterprise is in a state of turmoil. Can Scotty fix the engines? Can Bones fix the crewmen? Can the two fix each other? Eventual Scones.
1. Of Happiness, Hypos, and Hell

~happysquid08

Title: Technical Difficulties

Fandom: Star Trek: 2009

Pairing: Scones-centric

Synopsis: The Enterprise is in a state of turmoil. Can Scotty fix the engines? Can Bones fix the crewmen? Can the two fix each other? Scones.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek… And if you're reading this and don't know that already, I am surprised and actually kind of angry at you. How many of these fics have you read that actually _belonged_ to the copyright owner? For shame.

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Technical Difficulties

Chapter 1: Of Happiness, Hypos, and Hell

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"There y' are, Doctor. Cannae do much more n' tha." Scotty handed the hypospray back to Bones. "If they malfunction agin, jus' run 'em by Engineering an' Ah'll tayke uh look."

Reloading the cartridge, Bones experimentally stabbed the hypo into his own shoulder without flinching and injected the test serum.

"Works perfectly. Thanks, Scotty. I owe you a drink."

"Any tahyme, any tahyme." Scotty winked out of Med Bay in a flash. Bones snorted as he saw the door slide shut.

"Probably can't wait to get his hands on that Lieutenant Romaine again down in Engineering." He walked back to his desk and sat down, turning the hypospray Scotty had just fixed in his hands restlessly.

Bones was much too interested in the sex lives of the Bridge crew on the Enterprise. Chief Medical Officers on starships usually had to be invested in the well-being of their senior staff, especially the wild ones like Jim and Scotty. But Bones was different. All members of the senior medical staff were not only his respected colleagues, but also his best friends, and so he was especially careful for their safety. Therefore, he was constantly in the rumor mill researching relationships. The problem was, this caused him pain.

Bones held a special animosity for romantic relationships, because of his past with a crazy ex-wife named Nancy who took his planet and daughter, so even as he celebrated the happiness of his friends, he always felt a stab of insurmountable agony when he found new rumors here and relationships there. Especially when he had to take part. If it was up to him, Bones would cast off all relationships save for his closest friends and seclude all of them together in a closed, safe environment where they could all just exist. But it wasn't up to him, and now that he thought about it, he didn't think he would enjoy that life very much. What's the point of a life with no purpose?

He flipped the hypo into the air and expertly caught it.

"Time for some paperwork."

Just as he bent over his desk with a stylo in hand and a PADD before him, the door to Sickbay swished open.

"Can't a man get any work done around here?" McCoy groaned, exasperated. He looked up, and sure enough, Jim Kirk was hanging in the doorway.

"…Get out, I'm busy."

"Bones, how nice to see you. Glad you've missed me. You'd think you haven't seen me in months."

Bones tapped his chin with his stylo. "Now that you mention it, you haven't had a check-up in quite a while… Just let me refill my hypo."

Jim left hurriedly with a wave and an excuse. Bones grinned and bent down over his desk once more. This time the buzzer went off from one of the lower decks.

"Doctor McCoy, Nurse Chapel here."

"This is McCoy. What seems to be the problem?"

"A crewmember has collapsed in one of the lower Engineering decks, sir. It looks like a severe burn from an open circuit."

Bones sighed, and told her to bring the crewman immediately to Sickbay. He glanced once more at his paperwork, and then decided not to risk it. There were too many ways things could go wrong today to interrupt him, and Bones wasn't one to jeopardize his chances. It was the anniversary of his divorce, and everything horrible that had ever happened to him had occurred on this day; he was surprised the transporter hadn't malfunctioned and killed him today when he beamed back onto the ship from Earth's surface, it was amazing that no incidents on the planet they were currently orbiting had turned dangerous and life-threatening, and he was betting the inertial dampeners were going to stall as soon as they went to warp.

None of these anniversaries had started out so well, though. The hyposprays hadn't been working, sure, but Scotty had easily gotten them running again. His paperwork was beginning to resemble Mount Fuji, but it was all regulation work that he could do in his sleep; he was betting that his Yeoman, who was inept at anything medical, would be up to the task. His breakfast had been damnably soggy, but that was hardly unusual.

Bones wondered if he was just happy, and that when he saw the world differently bad things weren't so bad. The Enterprise seemed like a place he belonged, a place where he could always be connected to his friends. The staff was made up of reasonable people and people like Jim and even Spock he now considered family. Of course he was happy here; why wouldn't he be?

Then Bones thought about what had happened in years previous this same day, and realized that the happenings would have driven any sane man to the brink of madness, considering Bones' particular fears. Hell, they might have _caused _him to become a severe case of a collection of phobias. He shuddered and stood, waiting for the patient to arrive.

Running his hands together nervously, Bones compiled the correct set of medications a burn patient usually required. An open circuit didn't sound so bad; usually a dermal regenerator treatment or two and the wound was superficial. There were some quick passive anti-bodies for any unlucky but common infections picked up while the burn was open, and some anti-coagulants for after the dermal regenerator finished its work. Bones filled three hypos and plugged in a dermal regenerator to its charger. They took a lot of energy to work, but it was always worth it to see a wounded man patch up perfectly in so little time. It refreshed Bones to literally see the wounds heal on the table.

Bones had been waiting ten minutes when he became suspicious. Even if the patient was on the lower Engineering decks, it only takes one ride on that damnable high tech elevator and then it's over. Five minutes, maybe. Ten, there's trouble. Why hadn't anyone updated him, or called him to the source?

Groaning angrily, Bones strapped on his hypos to his belt and holstered his dermal regenerator and tricorder like a Western cowboy would with his double pistols, spinning them into his pockets. There was work to be done.

He stepped out the door and rushed down the hall. He saw no one. When the doors to the turbolift Bones didn't trust a bit in the first place didn't open, he rushed to the Jefferies tubes used in emergencies. It took forever to climb down all of the ladders to the lower decks, but it had to be done.

When the doors opened to Engineering, all he could think of was the works of Dante, with fire and brimstone cascading down in Hell with writhing sinners crying out in pain. Apparently Nurse Chapel hadn't had the chance to communicate to him before she was caught in the onslaught of a total outbreak of Engineering Hell. Communications were probably out anyway. Bones was grateful life support was still online.

He was in complete and total shock. He froze, watching the flames and sparks and hearing the screams and moans and smelling the burnt flesh and dried blood.

This is my fault, he thought. This is the curse of today. This is because today is October 23rd, the day of my divorce.

"Bones! Over here! I was actually about to go get you." It was Jim, sporting a few cuts and burns. He looked calm and controlled, a complete contrast to the surrounding chaos. Seeing Jim so calm helped Bones take a deep breath and pull out his tricorder.

"Jim, what can I do? What's the situation?"

"The entire Engineering deck is malfunctioning. Three sections have already been lost. I have no idea how many crewman are in there. I have everyone available that's not working on mechanical repair working on evacuation of the injured and the search for survivors in the recovered areas. Fires are rampant, but they aren't spreading far, based on the updated fireproof material Scotty put in during the last Engineering upgrade, so he deserves a little bonus. A few explosions, but not many, and only in the most concentrated stations that were lost. Communications are down, as are most other functions, like engines, steering control, and even computer banks are impossible to get online. Life support almost went, but that was our first priority to get fixed, so that's been successfully brought back online. If we don't get engines working within the hour, our orbit over this planet will decay and we'll die a painful, fiery death. I suggest that you find Nurse Chapel, who's running the evacuation procedures currently, and take over. Do quick medical procedures on those who need it, but especially focus on the engineers who can help fix the ship before she explodes in flame. Run up to Sickbay if you have to for more supplies, but remember that every second is vital. We have a considerable challenge and only so much time to fix it." Captain Kirk paused. "Get going, Doctor McCoy. We have a job to do." And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the hellish pit.

And so Bones sprinted off to Sickbay. He was so grateful that Jim was his Captain. He was sure that anyone else wouldn't have been so calm, so soothing, in such a complete state of crisis. He just knew it; he had seen Head Medical Officers at work years before, and in generally chaotic (though not nearly as disastrous or stressful) circumstances, they were at best on edge and anally picky, exacerbating the entire situation. Jim was put together, accepting, and organized in this utterly insane situation, and Bones was suddenly stuck by how mature and adept he was at his job. Not that he hadn't known it before, but all of a sudden Bones just knew that Jim had _always_ been a Captain, that he was _supposed_ to be one, that he _had_ to be one.

Thinking about Jim's captaincy gave Bones a healthy distraction, and his body automatically went to work. He stuffed as much as he could into duffel bags and shot himself with a bit of a stimulant before running off again. Somehow they had to get the turbolifts working again so they wouldn't need to use Jefferies tubes. Then patients would be able to get directly to Sickbay. Bones resolved to get a capable engineer on the job as soon as the engines were fixed.

_If_ they were fixed. Bones shuddered and paused as he went down another flight of Jefferies tubes. This was all his fault somehow; it was his bad luck at work. It was his damn divorce.

Then Bones remembered that people were dying because of his laziness and got moving. He was astonished at his slow pace; usually, in an emergency, Bones moved like lightning even on autopilot. He cursed his bad luck again.

As he hurried down the tubes, Bones missed a rung on the ladder and fell, smashing his head against the tube and twisting his ankle in the rungs. Groaning and then praying that he wouldn't fall again to his death, Bones gripped the edges of the ladder again, this time just sliding down the sides like someone would do in a movie. It hurt like hell, with the metal burning against his gripping palms as he slid down entire levels of Jefferies tubes at a dangerously fast rate. Usually Bones would object outright to such self-inflicted injuries, but a life-threatening disaster warranted them necessary.

He hit the bottom of the levels, at Engineering's main deck, and limped out into Hell Incarnate. He raised his arm in response to the onslaught of carnage, and heard the cry of a wounded man. Pulling out a pair of plastic gloves, Bones stretched the plastic onto his hands one at a time, bit the edges and tugged them on, and flexed his fingers experimentally.

He had a job to do.

Storming through the smoke and flame, McCoy whipped out his tricorder and slung his duffel bag of supplies next to the first body he found. He couldn't quite recognize the face in the chaos, but he could easily identify the problem. This patient had severe burns and a dislocated shoulder. There was the possibility of a concussion as well, according to tricorder readings. He took out a passive anti-body hypo and shot it into the patient first, to temporarily stop any possible infections, and then got to work with his dermal regenerator. After the burns were thinly covered, Bones shot him with a round of anti-coagulants, popped his shoulder back in place, and moved on.

There was a definite line of patients leading to the most dangerous spots of the deck; the amount together spiked as he got closer and closer to where the nacelles were located. He guessed that the center of the deck was the convening point, where the engineers would be working, the injured would be brought, and the settings would be the safest. So he headed that way.

Bones knew that his ankle was getting worse and worse as he limped on, but he continued to move. He knew that if he paused for himself, he was wasting time; he had to take care of the crewmembers he passed, and that took up all the extra time Bones could afford to spend treating non-lethal wounds. So he gritted his teeth and barreled onward.

He stumbled just as he arrived, falling harshly onto his elbow. The senior staff were for the most part assembled; Scotty, Spock, Jim, and Chekov were deep in discussion in the center of all things, looking as if they were in just another meetings, perfectly calm and rational about their situation. They sat in a semi-circle, outlining plans between them. Nurse Chapel was heading the evacuation and rescue effort, calmly ordering the placement of patients and the like. There was a group of patients waiting for treatment, some awake, some not. Without waiting for anyone to acknowledge his presence, Bones crawled over to the most wounded, and pulled out his tricorder. These symptoms were no secret, and many patients had the same symptoms, but it was always better safe than sorry. Bones was not going to mistreat a patient, no matter how chaotic the situation.

Chapel noticed him after he had moved up the back of the line, treating patient after patient thoroughly yet efficiently.

"Doctor!" She yelled out. "Doctor McCoy! You're here! What's wrong?" She got the attention of the senior staff with the note of worry in her voice.

Quietly doing a self-assessment, Bones noted that, along with a possible concussion and a twisted ankle, he had also gotten several burns, a puncture wound, a laceration on his leg, and possibly a broken rib. Blood was dripping from his head wound, but he gave no heed to any of it. He had patients to worry about, and a ship to save.

"Nurse Chapel, brief me on status."

She looked scandalized, or traumatized, or something equally confused and worried. But she went on to report after seeing the look in his eye.

"The engineers that need to be healed and are our priority are here in this group, Doctor. The fatally injured are at the front, while the less injured are further on back. I organized the sections by section. This is Engineering, this Command, and this Science. Just to have some clarity and organization, the Captain suggested it."

"Thank you, Nurse Chapel. Let's get to work." Bones was surprised how clam and steady his voice sounded when it felt like his world was spinning from the sudden pain. But he bore through it and started working.

Forty-odd patients later, Bones was tired. So tired… He injected himself with another stimulant he'd been keeping especially for that purpose. He had no excuse for laziness, not when work had to be done. Chapel kept her mouth shut on the subject for once, the intensity and necessity of the situation keeping her nagging at bay.

It was basically the same procedure over and over again, with some faces he recognized and others he didn't. Sometimes the procedure had the occasional bone-setting, or there were bits of metal burned into the skin that he had to surgically remove, but he got all operations done in less than five minutes for each person. He considered it a personal record, to go through procedures like this so quickly, efficiently, and thoroughly at all once. But he couldn't think about that right now. He had to focus on the task at hand: a young engineering lieutenant, with sever lacerations to torso and neck, severe burns to the face, a rib puncturing her lung, and a dangerously twisted spinal cord. He scanned her with the tricorder and made the decision he never liked to make: "I can't save her, not with the time I've got. Chapel, move her into the other group."

As her body was being dragged into the group that Bones didn't think would make it, he recognized her. She was the lass Scotty had recently been taken to. A twinge of guilt, shame, and self-hatred shot through the wall of apathy Bones had been trying to build in this medical nightmare of a situation. He turned to the next patient with his face a mask of indifference.

Bones didn't know much about engineering as a science, but he knew when the engines were fixed. He could hear them begin to rumble as he looked over the next patient. Slowly, the floor shook beneath them as the ship stuttered to life. More and patients were coming from the nacelle areas, walking by themselves and fully alert. It looked as if the life-threatening part of the situation was over. Now all that remained was the patch-up job that McCoy had to do. He reminded himself that, though the ship was no longer rushing headlong into oblivion, the situations of his patients were still potentially life-threatening.

With a sigh, Bones looked at the forever-increasing line of patients. Even when all other stations were done with saving the universe, a medic's job was never finished. He called out to Chapel.

"Nurse, I need you to round up all capable medical personnel. Take half of them to Sickbay to get double the supplies they need. The other half will stay with me and take care of what they can. This needs to happen _now_."

He had to hand it to her, Chapel was efficient and supportive in awful situations like this. She snapped to action immediately after his order and got things moving. Bones had half a mind to give her a promotion or medal on the spot, but he really couldn't stop to think right now or he'd topple over. He settled for a tired smile, another stimulant, and another round of patients.

The next half an hour was like a blur to Bones; he knew every patient's problems and treated them correctly, but he was in a haze, and time seemed to fly by before him. The medic team Chapel took, the reinforcements, arrived in what seemed like no time at all as Bones treated patient after patient. After they arrived, he took one more shot of a stimulant, walked up to Chapel, handed her his hypospray, his tricorder, and his dermal regenerator, said, "Nurse Chapel, please take over for me here," and promptly limped over to the Engineering group.

"I need the most skilled engineer to fix the turbolift to Sickbay immediately." The engineers all tittered, unsure of the best among their ranks. Bones was frank and looking for truth. He didn't care who it was, he just needed an engineer, dammit.

"Aye aye, Doctor. Ah'm yer man." Scotty appeared to his left with burns, cuts, bloodstains, and a smile. Bones sighed in relief.

"Come on, we gotta get these people to Sickbay. Turbolift A needs to be repaired immediately."

"Gotcha." Scotty slung his arm around him, and McCoy grasped at him for support as they stumbled through the burning, acidic smoke out of Engineering and into the hallway.

There was a pack of people in the hall now, all struggling to get into the Jefferies tubes. Bones and Scotty had to push past, shouting out their ranks and their need to get by. The seas parted little by little, and finally they reached the turbolift.

Scotty pulled out his tools in much the same way as Bones: like a cowboy. Spinning his metal tools on his index fingers expertly, they shined and sparkled even in the dim and smoky hallway. He sawed away a part of the wall to connect directly to the turbolift system for manual control and then twisted and pulled at the circuits so artistically that Bones was completely enthralled. A few seconds later, Scotty welded the wall back in place and slapped the door fondly.

"'S as good as new, Doctor." Scotty grinned. "Gotta love workin' on a starship, hm, Doctor? Isn't it exciting?"

Bones almost laughed, but didn't want to exacerbate his condition, so he just painfully smirked and said, "That ain't how I would've put it; more like ridiculously dangerous, but yep, I guess I do."

Bones limped into the turbolift, and pressed the stop button. "Scotty."

"Aye, sir?"

"Alert the medical teams in Engineering about this turbolift. If you go by any more, fix those too. We really need transport for the injured."

"Aye sir, goin' back there anyhow." Scotty beamed.

Bones deflated suddenly. Seeing Scotty so dapper was affecting his apathetic front he always put on as a doctor to separate himself from the situation; Scotty's sincere demeanor was breaking through it in a way Bones thought impossible. All of a sudden he was incredibly tired.

Slowly, Bones closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped, and his head hung. He sighed deeply and leaned against the wall of the turbolift.

Looking up at Scotty once more, floundering in his giddy state, Bones said, "And… make sure… tell them, the medical teams…all the hypos gotta have… equal levels of…" He slid down the wall. "Concentration…" His eyes fluttered shut. "For the passive anti-body shots…" His voice weakened as he spoke. His head slumped onto his shoulder. His eyes opened again, this time with a startling, lucid intensity that were infinitely morose.

"Scotty."

"Aye sir!"

"Lieutenant Mira Romaine… I couldn't save her…" Scotty's smile disappeared; Bones reached out towards him. "I couldn't save her… She… She was too badly injured… I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I couldn't save… Mira… " Scotty knelt down by Bones and grabbed his hand. His eyes filled with tears.

"Doctor, Ah'm… Ah'm shure ya did yer very best, now. Jes… Jest git t' Sickbay and ev'rythin' will jest fall inta place. We needta work our hardes' righ' now, dunnae worry about anythin' cept fer yer job." It looked like Scotty's heart was broken, and it did nothing to replace the façade of apathy for Bones. In fact, it made it worse; Bones was starting to cry, too.

"Scotty… I still owe you that drink…" Bones muttered with an attempt at a smile. "If we both get out of this alive and well, I'll buy you an entire night's worth of Scottish whiskey."

Scotty laughed softly, tears still coming down his face. "Ah'll keep ya to that, Doctor."

And then he left, to go back into Engineering. And Bones was suddenly traveling up and up and up – back to Sickbay. He crawled out of the turbolift and through the hall to his office, and with his PADD, activated the entire ward for emergency conditions. Every system was turned on to maximum efficiency, ready to receive a multitude of patients. He readied hundreds of hypos, one after the next, in quick succession, until the patients began to arrive in groups just large enough for a turbolift. As the groups began to double and finally triple, he guessed that Scotty had fixed another two turbolifts in the span of a half-an-hour. Not bad, with all the other work he had to do on the systems.

Bones had just finished sticking a hypo into his last patient when the Red Alert turned on again. It had been on throughout the decaying orbit, only to cease when the engines had successfully started up. Now it was on again? McCoy could only wonder why. Were they under attack? Maybe the ship had caught some sort of plague. Anything could happen on a day as unlucky as this one.

When the entire Sickbay rumbled and shook like an earthquake, Bones knew it was bad.

An orbit decay was just about the worst Engineering dilemma to get out of when the engines had been turned off, and that hadn't had much impact on the ship's inner conditions because of the inertial dampeners. Now that the inertial dampeners had apparently been messed up, Bones guessed from that shockwave that if they went into decay again, they would die ten times as fast with half the effort.

He had hit his head again, after tumbling to the floor. After a moment of recognition, Bones struggled onto his feet again, grabbing his seat to stay straight. More blood was flowing down his face. He suddenly recalled some elementary facts about red blood cells.

The erythrocytes of the blood contain no nucleus, and so are not cells at all, but simply bags of hemoglobin.

Bones was suddenly fascinated with the streams of red and black running down his arms.

Hemoglobin causes the red hue of blood, and contains the highest percentage of iron in the human body.

He slid his fingers over the streaks, and stared at the bloodied fingertips.

The erythrocyte distributes oxygen to the body because of the affinity hemoglobin holds for oxygen.

Bones noticed that he was gasping for air.

The Bohr Effect is the apparent selectivity of the hemoglobin to release oxygen in deficient areas.

Stumbling over to the medical beds, Bones grabbed a hypo and shot himself in the right arm so it would go straight to his heart and then into his lungs.

The blood contains numerous antibodies, lymphocytes, and white blood cells in addition to erythrocytes that combat disease. They attack all foreign substances introduced to the bloodstream.

He picked up one of the passive anti-body hypos he had loaded earlier and shot that one into his neck.

When an injury forms an opening into the skin, clotting takes place to halt the loss of blood and to cover the opening.

Bones sat down on the medical surgical table and pulled out his dermal regenerator.

Clotting is caused by threads of fibrin, which take three separate stages to be formed. Fibrin is purposefully difficult to produce to limit the amount of clotting produced in a healthy state.

With a steady, bloody hand, Bones carefully drew the regenerator across his open wounds.

In the event of the over-production of fibrin, severe clotting in the blood vessels can result in their clogging, and extensions of the body are cut off from oxygen supply.

When he had finished covering his burn wounds, Bones shot himself with a hypo of anti-coagulants. He checked for a broken rib with a tricorder, but it was only bruised. He fixed it up with his regenerator.

He sighed in relief; his wounds were now under control, and so were his emotions for the most part. Bones hated to admit it, and would _never_ admit it to Spock, but in crisis situations, sometimes emotions had to be suppressed or nothing got done.

So Bones walked over to the sink, washed his face, arms, and hands of all the blood, and then shot himself with another stimulant. This was the fourth, maybe the fifth one, and also the last. He could only force his body to move for so long before it gave out.

The medical teams from Engineering were still there, and had all been working diligently before the pseudo-earthquake. When he had been tending to his wounds, he vaguely noticed them as he wove through the crowd.

As soon as he could, Bones worked his way back through the crowd of medical teams and wounded crewmen back to his desk. He grabbed his emergency communicator and flipped it open.

Bee-bee-beep.

"Doctor McCoy to Engineering." Let's hope Communications are up again, thought Bones grimly.

The response was almost immediate, but the two-second delay seemed to stretch on for forever in Bones' opinion.

"Kirk here. Doctor, report."

Bones sighed in thankfulness. "Jim, three turbolifts are working to bring up patients, and the medical teams are all up here working their hardest. Every so often, rescue teams bring in more patients. We're covered in Sickbay. We just need time to recuperate." Bones paused. "You okay down there?"

"I'm fine, Bones. It's Engineering that isn't fine."

"Yeah, we can tell from up in Sickbay that nothing's fine right now, Jim. What's going on?"

There was a pause on the other end.

"Jim?"

"We're not sure what's wrong, Bones. We fixed the first problem with a highly dangerous full-power start-up that's never been done before, but now there's a completely different problem that we can't pin down. We're still working on it. If we get more information, I'll inform you. For now, just keep on fixing people."

"Affirmative."

"Kirk out."

Bones flipped his communicator shut with a resounding snap. He turned back to his desk, and saw something wrong.

He wasn't sure what it was, at first. He knew that something was wrong, he just couldn't pin it down. He had his database PADD, his stylo, his digital clock, his hypos…

Then it clicked. His clock was going backwards.

Bones flipped his communicator open again.

"McCoy to Kirk. Jim, pick up. I know what's wrong."

"Bones? What's going on?"

"I told you. I know what's wrong with the ship." Bones' lips felt numb as he pushed the words out. "We're traveling back in time."

"Bones, that's impossible!"

A tinny voice coming from a small distance from Jim started speaking. It sounded distinctly like Spock, logically explaining that the theory was an accurate one. Bones grinned smugly. If Spock was defending his position, he _had_ to be right.

"Thanks, Bones. Gotta go. Kirk out."

And so Bones flipped his communicator shut again. He watched the seconds disappear on his clock, watching the minutes wind backwards. How many seconds would be lost?

As the numbers slowed, Bones watched in anticipation. Slowly, ever so slowly, they stopped moving altogether, and then proceeded to go forward as they had before. By Bones' extremely scientific calculations, the Enterprise was now traveling in normal time again.

It was six o'clock in the morning of the same day.

Bones smiled and sighed in the joys of being alive to fight another day before groaning and smacking his forehead.

"Now I have to live through another October 23rd! Why did today of all days have to repeat itself?"

He grumbled to himself, before finally getting a start on that paperwork.

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END OF PART 1

Author's Note:

haha, poor Bones… you gotta love him.

Just a warning: this fic will most likely result in Scones. That's Scotty/Bones for anyone who can't tell a wombo from an ordinary word.

I'm not sure if I can, but I'll try to get every chapter up to the bar this first one has set… I think the length will be about the same for each chapter, so they might take awhile to update. Perhaps a week for a new chapter? You want quality, don't expect instant quantity, now. Be patient, please.

This fic is going for severely deep character exploration and development. It's gonna go slow. I also don't want anyone under a false impression at the start: this is not about a random fling, this is about a developing relationship. That means LOVE. So no explicit, random, thrown together sex scenes. Thus, though the fic is rated quite high for maturity, it is more because of the violence/deep insights than the homoeroticism.

Quick note: I want to keep the characters as they are, and not shuffle around their baggage just to fit my infernal schemes. If you ever see something that they do or say that's so incredibly _wrong_ your hair stands on end, tell me. And I really want to portray the fact that both of them are supremely manly and awesome, so if you see that, mention it and I'll know I've done my job.

By the way, all the medical stuff is legitimate. I swear. Look it up. (Except some of the equipment might be a little made up by the franchise… But that's another story.)

Oh, and if you like the fic and want me to work a bit more enthusiastically (and therefore more quickly), just review. I will take anything, even blatant abuse, and use it to fuel the fires of my inspiration.

Thus ends the longest Author's Note ever.

~happysquid08


	2. Of Surgery and Silver

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 2: Of Surgery and Silver

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Even though the Enterprise was safely back in orbit around Earth, it was still in a state of hell. The engines were still running on emergency power, and two thirds of the crew was critically injured or healing.

Bones thought about a time-travel paradox they might have ensued… But dismissed it. The first time they went through October 23rd, the Enterprise left orbit in about a minute. Everything and everyone was already accounted for.

He knew that he needed rest, but he couldn't stop working. He had finally gotten through his monumental stack of paperwork after the Captain had declared a week of rest after conferring with the Admiralty with their odd predicament, and now he didn't know what to do except work. So he did.

Bones realized he was sleeping when he was woken up by Nurse Chapel. "Doctor. It's an emergency."

"Yes, Nurse?" Another one, and so soon? It was barely seven.

"Doctor, Chief Engineer Scott sustained severe injuries when he stopped the ship from going backwards in time."

Bones raised his head hurriedly in alarm.

"Why has this taken so long to get to my attention?"

"Doctor, Chief Engineer Scott was beamed immediately down to a hospital on Earth when we arrived, and they weren't competent enough to effectively treat his injuries." Chapel paused. "You _are_ the best, Doctor. We need you."

Bones cursed. Colorfully. "Nurse, bring him into the operating room. Close off his table and do standard bacterial cleaning procedures before his entrance. Cool down his body into a moderately cryogenic state. Depending on the extent of his injuries, evacuate all personnel from the vicinity. Mobilize a surgical medical team and procure two decent sets of surgical tools. Do the necessary scans, and notify the Captain that surgery is about to be performed in Sickbay on one of his senior staff officers. After that, bring me the data on Scotty."

"Already done, sir." Chapel handed him the charts and qualitative measures of the injuries Scotty had picked up in his desperate but life-saving plan of action.

Surprised, Bones looked up at Chapel gratefully. "It's a good thing we haven't lost one of our best officers in all this havoc. Remind me to promote you."

Chapel smiled. "Of course, Doctor."

And then they got to work.

It was pretty messy and gory; a few of the weaker stomached nurses had to leave during the procedure, and Bones noted each one's disappearance. There was no room on a Starship of Death like this one for some pansy nurse who can't even stand the sight of a little gore.

But as he worked on Scotty, he had to admit that it was pretty awful, with all the tiny pieces of embedded metal, the deflated lungs, the sliced spine, the hand ripped down the center and utterly demolished. And there were burns. The skin melted off the bones easily, and there was only so much the dermal regenerator could do at one time. Blood was obviously everywhere, and had the right to be; Bones had to look for any surviving skin to duplicate. His small intestines had been dangling from his gaping chest cavity when he was hurriedly carted into Sickbay, and his liver looked as if someone had bitten out a chunk of it. The only untouched primary organ was the heart, which Bones thanked God profusely for. One of Scotty's sockets was smashed into his skull. There was possible serious brain damage from the freed, sharpened chips of bone from the eye socket, so Bones worked on that first.

He pieced together the tiny chips of bone and fused them as if they were puzzle pieces, both hands doing different tasks: the left was finding pieces, while the right was taking them and fitting them together. After each piece's removal from the brain tissue, Bones carefully welded the gray matter back into its proper place. He knew exactly where all the brain's neural pathways led and what they did, he could recite them when drugged and beaten, and so each neural molecule was carefully yet quickly snapped back into place. The chips of bone were in the general pattern of a spider web, and so Bones began digging deepest in the center of the hit and worked his way up. When he had finally collected all of the pieces, Bones held up the finished eye socket up to the light and closely inspected his handiwork. Not a single crack. This eye socket could now take a bullet and remain intact, with all the strengthening adhesives Bones had added to it. Slowly, he inserted the bone back into the skull, and pasted it securely back into place with a bit more bone adhesive. He quickly sewed up the cut muscle back across the forehead and cheek with a laser. Now all that was left for the head was the skin of the face, and that could be done with a dermal regenerator and a monkey. He left it to the slightly more capable nurses, who had been attempting to regenerate the more serious burns, administer a constant supply of oxygen, and alleviate the bleeding.

Now that the brain damage was taken care of, Bones went to the rest of the body. He quickly scanned the list of injuries again, and decided to start with the basics and move up from there. The most dangerous and deep injuries took precedence over the mostly superficial injuries. Like Bones always said, start at the base and work your way up to the roof to build a house, not the other way around.

So Bones started recreating Scotty's shattered bone structure, beginning with the spinal cord, which was dangerously sliced by shards of metal. With the spinal cord, there was always a difficulty in removal, because if the object was twisted the wrong way, the patient could be paralyzed for life. With a pang, Bones recalled Lieutenant Romaine, whose spinal situation had been similar to this, though already twisted. Then he continued to work, pulling out his scalpel and tongs with a practiced ease and habitual flourish, and easily tugged out the shards one by one. The nurses stopped to watch, knowing that this particular section of the surgery was the most delicate and dangerous. If Bones messed up here, Scotty would be lost. When Bones came to the last, most problematic shard, after a touch of a regenerator on the last area, he descended mercilessly. There was no pause, no prayer. Bones just dove into the area and yanked the shard of metal from its spot, easily and almost carelessly from the nurses' perspectives. He swabbed the spot, injected a small amount of stem cells directly into the spinal cord's gray matter, closed up the white matter, injected the white matter with a stimulant, and then seared the bone shut.

During a surgical procedure, Bones considered applause to be a pain, an unwelcome distraction, but when the nurses cheered for his flawless spinal procedure, he relaxed his aching hands for a second before continuing on instead of screaming. There was not enough time. He had to get to work on the open chest cavity.

Working on the organs themselves was simple; the doctors on Earth had apparently patched up the stomach puncture and the nurses had gotten to work on the liver and intestines. The kidneys had been slightly damaged, but Chapel was currently working on connecting all of the capillaries, vessels and tubes already. The main concern of the chest cavity was the opening. The ribs around what used to be the cage of the chest looked as if they had been forced to break in half, and it was going to be no easy task to find the pieces as Bones floundered in the fluids of the cavity. His plastic gloves sloshed through the blood and God knows what else as he searched for the tips of the ribs. He found one while his hand was blindly groping under the liver. It had taken some communication between him and Chapel, but all in all it went quickly. He knew they had to be quick, because all that poking around crushed more capillaries than Bones wanted to think about but knew anyway.

Bones picked up his trusty brush for bone adhesive, and began to patch the ribs back together. As he worked, he realized that Chapel had finished. He wordlessly handed the rib he was working on to her, along with his tool, and called out another nurse to aid her.

He had to begin the restructuring of the cavity with the tissues, now that the ribs were being taken care of. Quickly scanning the depth of the opening, Bones surmised that he would have to completely restructure the capillaries, nervous systems, blood vessels, muscles, and membranes in the front two-thirds of the entire torso.

He spoke for the first time since the operation started. All the communication before that had been in grunts and pointing. All the nurses were immediately on the alert, stopping their work.

"Medical Team." He paused. "I need a specialized four-man team for the chest cavity. I need one capillary, muscle, membrane, and nervous tissue specialist. All the life-signs nurses stay on task."

Instantly, his team was assembled, and he started the work. The muscle specialist began generating muscle fibers, as the nervous tissue specialist generated nerves. The capillary specialist got his own team, and had them all constantly generating more capillary systems. The membrane specialist began delicately forming and connecting the membranes to the organs in preparation for the weaving of the entire chest cavity. The stomach, lungs, and intestines were put firmly back in place with the combined efforts of all four specialists under Bones' direction. He himself wove the muscle, neurons, and capillaries together as if he were weaving an intricate tapestry, connecting the proper colors and textures in a beautiful pattern.

They began with the central cavity around the heart, carefully placing the organs between their respective muscles and connecting the nerves to the spinal cord. The lungs were glued to the walls of the ribcage, which had been covered by the membrane specialist after the muscle specialist had finished with the intercostals. Finally, Scotty could breathe on his own again with the realignment of the diaphragm. The dermal regenerator nurses began to move down from the face and arms and began working on the first half of the chest that Bones had finished with a sigh of relief.

Now came the lower half, the abdomen. The intestines were loose, but other than that, fixed. All that remained was another weaving from the team of restructuring specialists. They got to work once again, piecing together the entire inner workings of the human abdomen. Bones once again took the reins, taking the materials from his team and weaving the most intricate and difficult parts for himself while the other specialists fixed the important yet supporting parts of the operation. When the abdomen was finally complete, and all that remained was the red and bloodied surface of muscle needed to be covered by skin, the specialists cheered for themselves, considering this the biggest accomplishment of their careers so far. Bones didn't even glance upwards; he grabbed a dermal regenerator himself and worked the skin back on delicately.

After the main problems had been completely dealt with, and the cavity was closed once and for all, the only major impediment was Scotty's right hand. Bones idly wondered how Scotty had possibly managed to destroy his hand so thoroughly as he easily found the bits of bone in the arm from the broken hand. Having extracted the last of the broken bone, Bones took back his handy bone brush, and perfectly fit the pieces together again. This hand would be able to break through steel after this operation, though the skin would undoubtedly rip off. He fitted the last segment of bone back into place, and began work on slowly refitting the halves of the hand together. Sewing them with a laser, Bones took pains to perfectly fit the cells into their respective places. The hand was the most delicate apparatus a man had, and he was pretty sure Scotty was right-handed. He had to be extremely careful in the refit, or Scotty would have to forgo using his right hand effectively for the rest of his life. Once fixed, never changed. Once these wounds were healed, even if they were healed in the wrong way, they couldn't be tweaked for further efficiency. This was it, the defining moment. As every moment is in a surgery.

As he stitched the hand together with his trusty laser, Bones knew that Scotty would pull through with flying colors. All of the main injuries had been successfully taken care of, the only thing left after the hand being the less dangerous and mostly superficial shards of metal embedded into the lower half of his legs. There was a ridiculous amount of blood that had to be replaced after the shards were removed, and then the surgery was over.

But Bones didn't stop working. As nurse after nurse and doctor after doctor collapsed from exhaustion, Bones battled on. When the last piece of metal was finally plucked out of Scotty's left femur, some of the nurses had actually come back from a good night's sleep. Bones vaguely wondered how long he'd been working, but then snapped back to the task at hand. It was almost finished, after all.

All that was left were the blood transfusions. Bones was especially quick at transfusions, so he figured that he would be better than some random nurse. Scotty needed the blood sooner rather than later, and he was the best there was. So Bones kept on going. He hooked up all the machines, looked up the blood type, sent the nurses to get the blood, and then manually transferred a pint and a half of blood into Scotty's circulation system. Easy. Now he just had to heat up Scotty's body from its induced state of a significantly lowered temperature, and he would be done.

As Bones heard the scanning monitor beeping out data, he picked up his PADD and stylo and wrote out his whole report of the surgery relatively quickly, in about a half an hour.

Just as Scotty's heartbeat increased to the normal rate, Bones collapsed onto the neighboring surgical table. He straightened the hard, uncomfortable pillow and closed his eyes. Bones was out like a light. He had been working nonstop for three days, counting the first October 23rd. Fixing Scotty had taken almost 48 hours in total, and he had been at the operating table for the entire surgery. Bones was officially wiped out. If there was another emergency, he didn't think he would be able to get up, much less give a damn.

Bee-bee-beep.

Bones' communicator was beeping. He didn't move.

Bee-bee-beep.

Bones sighed.

Bee-bee-beep.

"The things I go through."

He answered the call.

"Bones here."

"Hey Bones, it's Jim." There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Bones, I need you to get down to Engineering stat. We have a problem."

Bones paused this time. Jim knew that Bones had just been through a grueling surgery, and he knew that all the resources of Sickbay needed to be restocked.

"Jim, fill me in from here. I might not be able to help you."

Jim paused again.

"Bones, we found the alien that caused this whole mess. It's seriously injured and wants revenge, so it took over the Engineering room to try to destroy us. That's the reason why our engines stalled the first time, and the reason why Scotty got so hurt. The alien did that to him. Bones, we need you to treat the alien. Now. If you don't, when it regains some of its strength, it could try to take over again."

Bones didn't know what to say for a second.

"…Good God, Jim… If I fix this monster, do you really think he'll just smile and say thank you? He'll probably just try to kill us all again."

"Your opinion is noted, Doctor. However, it is vital that we assist this life-form." Spock just _had_ to cut in. "If we do not, it will surely keep trying to destroy this ship. The only reason it has not is because of Chief Engineer Scott's valiant efforts to anger it and force it to waste its energy on destroying him. We must repair our relationship with this powerful unknown being before it kills us all."

"…What type of life-form is it? What supplies do I need to bring? How is it hurt?"

"It appears as if the entity was wounded by phaser fire, and its structure is basic humanoid. The coloring is odd, as is the speech. The noises made are quite unique, and the pigmentation of the skin is silver, and sparkles like gold. I would say the creature is made of up rare alloys and basic metals from a basic tricorder analysis. A medical scan would increase understanding exponentially."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock. Be down as soon as I get Scotty's ass out of Sickbay and into recuperation."

"Affirmative. Spock out."

And that was that. No rest for the doctor.

Bones woke Scotty and informed of his surgery as the two of them stumbled towards the rehabilitation ward.

It kind of went like this:

"Mornin,' Scotty."

"Doctor, wha's goin' on? Whatse situation?"

"You've been damn near killed by a silver bastard who's trying to take over the ship who I have to go and save. C'mon, man, we've gotta getcha to the rehab ward. We might need you when we get past all the preliminary shit with the thing. You specialize in mechanics, and the creature might be a strange combination of metals and electricity – in other words, a machine."

"That sounds exciting. Ah'm sure ih'll be fantastic." Scotty yawned. "Jes' weke me up when ye need me."

He nodded off once Bones got him onto the nearest bed.

Bones headed back to Sickbay for medical supplies. He wasn't sure what exactly he needed, so he took a little bit of everything, with a little more of the essentials. Bones made sure to overstock on diamonds and other ores that were specially replicated for random uses like this. If there was ever a time to use them, it would be now.

He set the turbolift for Engineering.

The doors slid shut, and Bones closed his eyes for a rare moment of acknowledgement: he was tired, he was in pain, he was working too hard. Then Bones opened his eyes and set his jaw. He had a job to do, dammit. And he would do it damn good.

Bones stepped out of the turbolift, his limp still evident but reduced from his earlier attempts to patch himself up. He knew he looked like hell; anyone would, after what he'd been through recently. He glared daggers at any ensigns or lieutenants who looked aghast and frightened by his very presence, and they scurried away like mice.

"Bones, stop scaring the ensigns." Jim was smiling tiredly, with a considerable amount of bruises on his face.

Bones pulled out his tricorder.

"Okay, so how did you get into a fight _this_ time?" He scanned Jim's entire body, and sighed in relief to find that he only had bruising, a small cut on the inside of his right ankle, and a pulled muscle in his arm.

"Well, the thing, the silver thing, can hit hard as hell." As he listened, Bones pulled out his dermal regenerator and fixed the bruises and cut. The pulled muscle would only heal properly with rehabilitation or special surgery, so Bones didn't touch it. He filed away the information for later, to make sure Jim got treatment. "Once we discovered that it wasn't a malfunction but an intruder, we assumed that it was a dangerous enemy. I ordered the Security teams to put their phasers on High." Jim sighed. "After we found out what it was, it was too late: the engines had already been compromised. It had already been wounded before we were able to figure out what it was, so we don't know why or how it was injured. Mr. Spock seems to think it was injured by phaser fire, which is possible. After we cornered it with no weapons, the thing, which is obviously intelligent, came right for me, almost as if it knew I was the leader. We had a small tussle before Spock hurled it against the nacelle, which broke. It wasn't working before that, but it still sucks. I'll have to file so much crap for that. Anyway, I was lucky to get away with just bruises. It didn't look like Mr. Silver Surfer knew how to fight very well. After he was thrown into the nacelle, Silver Surfer got even _more_ angry. By this time, Scotty had finally started the engines back up again so our orbit wouldn't decay into Colony IX, and so the nacelle had ignited up again. I don't think Silver Surfer appreciated it. He thrashed around. I bet his injuries are gonna be hell to fix, Bones."

"Wait, wait, wait. Why did the engines start going back in time, then? When did that happen?"

"Oh, that was a result of starting up the engines right away with no warm-up time in the middle of a decaying orbit. It had nothing to do with Silver Surfer. At least, that's what Spock says, and I believe him."

"When did Scotty get attacked?"

"Oh, that was before he went off to start up the engines, when Silver Surfer attacked me. Y'see, when Silver Surfer was cornered, he was still hijacking the servers and controlling the ship all on his own. After he went after me, he was still connected, because his fingers stretched like wire across the room. So we needed to separate him from the computer. Scotty called him a few names, shot him with a phaser on kill, which had been instituted on my orders after we decided that the High setting wasn't nearly enough to stop this creature, and then the Silver Surfer completely focused on him." Here Jim paused. "I can't believe you fixed Scotty, Bones. I'll have to see it to believe it.'

"Go on, go on, what happened?" Bones needed to know. What if the same thing happened to him?

"Silver Surfer disconnected his wiry fingers from the control panel, and then used them to wrap around Scotty's hand, crushing the hand and shattering the phaser."

That explained the crushed bones in the right hand, along with the metal shards sticking everywhere. Bones figured the vertical slash of the hand had happened then as well.

"Then…" Jiim faltered again. He must be tired, thought Bones. I wonder if he's in the same boat I am. "Then Silver Surfer pulled Scotty towards him, and smashed his cheek in. The blood or whatever of the Silver Surfer was like electricity, and got all over Scotty when it happened. He was pretty badly burned, right?"

"…Yeah."

Bones crouched down. He took a breath, and supported his falling head with his palm.

"Jim…How did Scotty's entire central cavity get ripped open?"

Jim sighed and crouched down to his level.

"Well… After hitting Scotty's face, Silver Surfer started ripping his organs and tissues out of his body. He started with the skin, and then just got further and further down until he was sure Scotty wasn't going to live." Jim shuddered. "It was… ruthless. He didn't have any qualms at all. After he got to the spinal cord, Silver Surfer started… _crushing_ Scotty. We got Scotty out of his hands right about then."

Bones crossed his arms and set them on his knees.

"…Wow. And then he got sent to some shitty Earth hospital."

Jim hesitated. "Not exactly… He… Scotty was the one who got the Enterprise working again, remember? Right after we recovered him, Scotty got the manual control online, and set in the equation Mr. Spock came up with. He was also the one who got the Enterprise to stop traveling back in time."

Bones fell on his ass.

"_What the hell?"_

Jim knew a volcano when he saw one. He nodded his head. "Yeah, yeah, Bones, don't get mad at me, there was no stopping him. You know what Scotty's like, with the ship. Obsessive, that's what. He wasn't about to let some alien destroy it along with him."

Bones deflated again. Once again, Scotty's sincerity and dedication awed him in a way that broke the professional doctor persona he put up in a crisis. That was a good thing; afterwards, it felt more refreshing to know that someone was still out there in this crazy world who wasn't completely insane. He always calmed down after meeting Scotty in a life-or-death situation because that assured Bones that he wasn't the only one seeing crazy things happen.

Bones sighed and smiled faintly. He rolled up and stood and so did Jim.

"Ready to see the patient, Captain."

"Right this way, Lieutenant Commander, Chief Medical Officer, sir." Jim mock-saluted him and led him in the right direction.

Bones smiled fully, and pulled out his tricorder. He wasn't sure if he would be able to pull through, but he would do a damn good job at patching up that alien.

Even though his instincts screamed for him to get the hell out of there and leave the killer alien to die, Doctor Leonard McCoy would follow Jim into the nacelle section to the Silver Surfer, because he was a professional, dammit. He would _do his damn job_, even if it killed him.

On that note, Bones marched back into Engineering Hell.

((()))

END OF PART 2


	3. Of Damnation and Determination

Of Damnation and Determination

Bones knew where the Silver Surfer was, roughly. He was in the nacelles section. Jim stopped him before he went into the strange cave the Silver Surfer had constructed for himself out of the broken metals of the Engineering around him.

"Bones… be careful. He's dangerous. No sudden movements, go as slow as you can. You're not going in alone, remember that. Spock is going with you, and Scotty might if he's well enough later. Spock'll be a real help in the languages department, and he can easily tell which metals are which. He'll be damn useful for you to figure out the Silver Surfer's chemical makeup."

"Affirmative." And with that and Spock, Bones headed into the dangerous, dark unknown. He was reminded of the fear he had felt going into space for the very first time. The situations were similar enough.

Then Bones really noticed the cave around him. It was almost artistic in its makeup, with brightly silver metal sheets bent haphazardly into a passageway, wires dangling down and shooting off sparks every so often. The walls were by no means smooth, the sheets of metal sharply jutting in points, so Bones and Spock had to carefully make their way through the passage without getting electrocuted, stabbed, or tripped with a single light at their disposal.

"Doctor." Spock spoke up suddenly. "You are aware that before you can safely come close to the creature, I must somehow come to an understanding with it."

"Yes, I am aware, Mr. Spock. The only thing is, why is it _you_ who's doing the emotional pacifying and why Jim's still outside this damn hellhole? I figure that you, with all your logic, could deduce something like that."

Bones could have sworn that Spock pursed his lips in annoyance, but in the torrid light he couldn't tell for sure.

"I am well aware that Captain Kirk has a certain skill in emotionally connecting and pacifying a majority of the entities he comes into contact with, but that is not the logical solution in this case. While the Captain is unusually talented in this area, he deals mainly in the projection of his emotion through facial, oral, and bodily language that will not affect the creature inside of this cave. Previous encounters with this being indicate that it does not understand emotions through any of these means."

"And you have a foolproof way of cutting through that."

"Indeed, Doctor."

There was a pause when Bones waited for further explanation and got none. Spock is just baiting me, he realized. He wants me to ask him. He wants me to get annoyed. He wants me to logically release the stress I've been building up, and forget about the possible death around the corner with the Silver Surfer.

Bones sighed and shrugged, not that Spock would see it. "Well, Mr. Spock, I can't curb my curiosity. What the hell are you planning to do to it?"

There was another pause from Spock.

"It is a Vulcan tradition that began with Surak, at the dawn of civilization on the planet, that connects minds to one another, melding the into one, allowing communication through thoughts."

Bones stopped walking.

"It is the Vulcan mind meld."

His mouth hung open.

"Doctor?" Spock looked back, Bones would almost swear, in a smug way.

Bones clamped his mouth shut, and started walking again.

"I'll believe it when I see it, Mr. Spock." Bones scratched his head. "If it was just me, I would have thought that you were just –"

But here Bones stopped; it hit him all at once. The reason Spock was refusing to see the logic in Jim's accompanying the party was because Spock was protecting Jim from the Silver Surfer. Logically, as it had already attacked Jim before, it could try again if given the chance. The mind meld thing Bones wasn't so sure about, but even if Spock really did have this meld thing, Jim should have still been there to give input and advice. He was the captain, after all; any treaties or agreements under the power of the Enterprise should go through him. Sending Jim to get Scotty instead of a Yeoman during such a delicate situation was Spock's way of keeping Jim out of danger and unsuspicious through an occupation.

Bones smirked and gave a sidelong glance to Spock.

"For someone who claims to not have feelings, Mr. Spock, that was a very compassionate action you just took."

"Doctor, I am offended. Please refrain from insults until the crisis is safely averted; they have a tendency to render officers inefficient."

"Oh, so you wouldn't be an efficient officer if I insulted you?"

"I was referring to yourself, Doctor."

Bones huffed an aggravated sigh. Why couldn't Spock ever just admit to his feelings? Everyone knew he had them, especially from the Narada incident. Why did it always have to be an uphill battle?

All of a sudden, Bones' tricorder went insane. After a half an hour of slightly increasing readings that seemed impossible, it was just too much for the poor tricorder. It just squealed and went blank.

"I think I found the creature."

"I believe I can compensate the tricorder settings to easily record the readings of the creature." Meaning: I'll fix it for you.

"All the luck to you, Mr. Spock." Bones handed his tricorder to him immediately. They stopped walking.

With five clicks and some manual tinkering, Spock got the tricorder working again.

"This is now programmed to accept electromagnetic and magnetic stimuli as well as the standard regulation stimuli. I have also incorporated the basic metals as the primary focus of the sensor, so difficulties with working on the creature will be diminished."

Bones was about to ask him how he had done all that in about thirty seconds, but decided that as long as it worked, he didn't care. So they got moving again.

It was dangerous, slippery work to move through the sparking, metallic caverns of the Silver Surfer. Every so often, the sparks from the open wires would explode, illuminating the sheer length and sharp points of the tunnel. Bones was amazed that the Silver Surfer could have done all this in such a short time. He must have taken up three decks with his little tunnel! Bones mused. Jim is going to do so much paperwork after this is done…

"Doctor." Spock stopped walking.

"What?"

"There is the creature."

Spock had said it in such a calm, logical way that Bones had to do a double take. He had at first thought, Oh, well, that's just fine and dandy. It had seemed like a report on the functions of the ship or something, so commonplace that Bones almost missed it.

But then he understood, and Bones froze. Not that he was afraid or anything. Bones knew that when an animal was wounded, its tendency was to attack the closest moving object, perceiving it as a threat.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Bones turned his head to see the creature he had come to save.

It was big, bigger than Bones had imagined it. The caverns were massive, and it filled them up easily, like a hulking bear. The figure was large but lithe, a dangerous combination between strength and agility. It shifted every so often, its form glittering softly in the faint light from the wire sparks. Bones knew that body language; the creature was in serious pain. The sounds coming from the curled up mass in the corner of the cavern were indicative of elevated breathing levels. There were a considerable amount of shining pools surrounding it, which Bones attributed to bleeding, even if it wasn't technically blood.

Bones pointed his light at the ground, so as to not antagonize.

"Spock, can it hear?" Bones whispered. "Can we talk?"

"No, it cannot hear, Doctor." Spock started to go into a scientific explanation of why it couldn't hear, but then got cut off as the creature responded to his voice. It began to turn towards them, leaning down on its haunches and getting into a classic attack position.

"Certainly, Mr. Spock. Your logic is as flawless as ever." Bones couldn't resist the jab, even if the situation was exceedingly dangerous.

The creature growled before Spock could respond. It sounded like a growl, anyway, Bones really couldn't be sure. Maybe it was some alien language politely greeting them to its abode. Bones had never been a real optimistic person, but suddenly he wished that he was. He knew that growl meant that if they didn't leave, it would kill them.

Being the people they were, Spock and Bones stayed still, and didn't even twitch. Time dragged on and on.

The creature slowly relaxed from its attack position, almost collapsing into what looked like the fetal position against the wall of the cave. Bones wondered how it could avoid all of the sharp spikes while it leaned against the wall. But there were more important things to worry about. Like how to establish peaceful relations with a wounded animal that could kill them as easily as it took to swing its arm.

The breathing rate of the creature had increased almost double the amount it had been when they had arrived. Bones knew that it desperately needed medical attention, but he was loathe to make the wrong move, so he didn't dare any moves at all. Maybe after another hour of the creature becoming used to their presence, at the least.

Then, logically of course, Spock took a step, and the creature was on alert once again. It didn't look strong enough to get back on its haunches, but its arms tensed up and its head turned towards Spock in a flash.

In reaching the edge of the creature's personal space, Spock held up his hands, curving them into claws. Spock's head hung, his arms outstretched. In Bones' opinion, it was just plain weird.

"My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts."

Maybe this was the psychic crap Spock had been talking about before. Bones hoped it worked, but at the same time, he was creeped out.

As time went on, Spock's head still hung, and his arms and hands were in the same position the entire time. But the creature calmed down. The shining eyes that had been so full of fear were half-lidded, and the entire body of the creature had relaxed. The breathing had slowed down to a normal rate.

"Doctor McCoy, it is now safe to treat the creature."

"What the hell did you do?"

"I have calmed the creature, assuring it of our intentions. He will be cooperative in our attempts to heal it."

"I have some questions first."

"Proceed, Doctor."

"It has a name?"

Spock stopped for a second, and then responded, "He is named… Slistastostas, I believe."

"Can he speak?"

"No, Doctor. Though I believe at one time he could, it seems as though his vocal cords are inoperative at the time."

"Does he understand our language?"

"Negative, Doctor." Spock stopped for another second. "Though I believe he is familiar with the language of the Zanabares."

"The who?"

"The people who inhabit the planet of Colony IX, the Zanabares."

"Okay, then. Does it matter?"

Spock pursed his lips, almost angrily. "The… Zanabares people… bring up many negative emotions in Slistastostas, Doctor. Fear, anger, hatred… I believe that it matters immensely. The injuries… Slistastostas has sustained… Ah!"

Spock screwed his eyes up in concentration or pain, Bones couldn't tell which.

"Did not… happen on the Enterprise… I cannot go any… farther than this… in the mind of Slistastostas… There are too many painful memories, too many strong emotions… I believe that you should begin your treatment of him, he is in… so much pain..."

Bones slowly moved forward, still cautious of Slistastostas. He pulled out his tricorder and held up the light.

According to the tricorder, the body of Slistastostas was mainly composed of grease and oil, the human equivalent being water, Bones guessed. The neural system was made up of electric circuits, and the blood was composed of a mixture between gold, rust, and copper. Organs were mainly made up of zinc, the bones iron and steel, and the skin was a thin layer of porous platinum. Bones had never seen anything like it. He had expected as much. He thanked God he had taken that alien xenobiology recognition and comparison elective in his senior year of undergraduate college.

After figuring out the basic design of the basically humanoid body, Bones got cracking on the wounds.

Indeed, phaser fire made up the most obvious injuries on the surface, which caused the most bleeding. But it looked as though the more serious injuries that truly incapacitated Slistastostas were not from phaser fire, but in a cumulate amount of what looked like some form of torture. Scarring tissue adorned several key vessels, as did specifically placed cuts to prevent continued extreme movement. Bones checked the vocal cords, which resembled computer cords, and they appeared to have been purposefully cut.

After compiling the information, Bones stopped, putting his tricorder down and looking at Spock compassionately. Spock waited for his diagnosis.

"These wounds are definitely purposefully inflicted through torture. And…" Bones looked down angrily, closing his eyes. "Tell Slistaslas or whatever the hell his name is that…" Bones paused. "…I'll fix you up good and proper, don't you worry."

Though his voice had cracked a bit, and his eyes had swelled with some tears, Bones held it back, and pulled out his med-kit after a second of throwing all of his emotions in a temporary box. He was immeasurably angry and heart-wrenchingly sad all at the same time and it reminded him of his divorce, but he knew that now was the time to act.

Slistaslas or whatever the hell his name was would die if he didn't.

And Bones wouldn't let any patient die if he could prevent it.

Because that was his _job, _dammit.

It didn't have anything to do with the pity and grief and sympathy for the pain this poor creature's been through, or the hatred and anger and self-loathing against his torturers.

Bones pulled on his surgical gloves again. His eyes, which had been slightly out of focus as he denied his emotional involvement, suddenly zeroed in on the injuries of Slitastostas.

It was time to get some serious shit _done_, dammit.

As Bones proceeded to kick the hell out of modern medicine and its practices with sheer badassery, he imagined what the official report would look like. Probably'll be borin' as hell, he thought. Take alla fun outta it.

Working with limited tools and next to no precious resources, Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy and Commander Spock commenced procedural surgery on an unknown alien physiognomy.

Bones snorted. Spock looked up at him suddenly.

"Doctor?"

"Alien physiognomy my ass… We're thinking about this all wrong. This is just like a machine we need fixed. We need Scotty for this."

After four hours of open chest surgery, the two officers were joined by Captain James T. Kirk and Chief Engineer Scott for further assistance.

"What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?" Damn you, Kirk, with your damn optimism and perkiness.

"What cannae do fer ya, Doctor?"

"Well, took you long enough, dammit. We got the basic parts of him back together, and I can tell you all about how his body works, but I'm for shit at putting it together. You have to do it."

"Go on, then." Scotty smiled.

" His body is the perfect machine, Scotty. It uses the oxygen in the air to stimulate sparks for energy, and the basic metals and lubricants that make up his system include platinum, steel, iron, gold, copper, and oil. His heart resembles a four-valve engine and his brain is like a computer. I've never seen anything that got this close to the perfect machine."

It was clear that Scotty was excited, with the smile, the obsessive spinning of his tools, and his eagerness to begin his part of the surgery.

"Wha' haff ye done already?"

"Dammit, Scotty, we've done as much as we can do, but it's nowhere near where it needs to be. We've done experimental procedures to figure him out and that's been just about it. I'm worth shit with machines, and Spock doesn't have the tools!"

"Oy, oy, Doctor, it's jus' fine, now. Calm down, thar's a good Doctor, now. We'll help this little baby run smooth now, won't we?"

Bones sighed, stood, and almost walked off. Scott motioned him to come back. "Ah didn't say _me_, Doctor. Ah may be good at fixin' machines, but this here is both a machine _and_ a man. Ah think it would be best if ye stuck around, bein' the Doctor an' all."

Sitting abruptly back down, Bones sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Bones and Scotty took a second to look at each other. Scotty went back to fiddling with the internal organs of Slistaslas (or whatever the hell his name was) with a wrench and some pointy looking tools Bones couldn't name. Bones kept on looking.

"I heard you fixed the ship after being damn near _gutted_ by this thing."

"Ah heard ye fixed me up after not sleepin' fer two days."

"And now you've got the gall to _walk_ _around_ and keep on _going_ after all that?"

"And now ye've been up for a total of _six_ days? An' yer _still _doing surgeries?"

Bones sighed again. He wasn't in the mood. But that conversation released all the tension from his shoulders and his forehead. His narrowed eyes loosened, and Bones' ramrod straight posture slouched as he hunched over the body with Scotty, both of them reaching in and messing with the alien's innards.

"Yeah, that sounds just about right. Damn, has it really been six days?"

"Weeeeell, there mighta been a liddle time travelin' involved, but tha's not really all that important in th' long run I figure."

"So five, really?"

"Well, _we've_ been through six, while everyone else 'as been through five."

"Well, damn, if ya think about it like _that_…" Bones smiled and chuckled, wrinkling his eyes closed.

The patient in front of him began to go into cardiac arrest. Being the doctor he was, Bones had been constantly checking the status of Slistastostas on the monitor of his tricorder and manually checking his pulse, so he knew instantly when things began to go awry.

"Scotty, he's going into cardiac arrest! We need to electrocute him!"

"Ah don' think that'll work, Doctor! He could short circuit!"

"We have to do it, dammit! He needs rapid stimulation or he'll die!"

"No, Doctor! A machine tha' overdoes it needs its energies cut _off_, not increased! We need to get rid or suppress any electricity to cut off the flow within his body to stop the cardiac arrest!"

"Then how the hell do we do that?"

"We jus' pull th' plug!"

"He doesn't _have_ a fucking plug!!!"

"Hmmm…" Scotty chewed on his lip. "Then Ah guess Ah could make one."

Bones could only watch as Scotty ripped circuits and cords from the cave walls, sewing and tying them together in complicated ways. He attached one end of his makeshift plug to a live, sparking circuit, and the other directly within the creature.

"Doctor, where's th' bes' place fer me t' put this plug on this end?"

Bones fumbled with the engineer's rough hands to grasp the other end of the plug. He found the optimal site for connection and placed it there. Well, it was both him and Scotty. Scotty's hands were handling the weight and electricity of the cord while Bones was directing the movements. After it was done, Bones scooted back.

"I thought he didn't need any extra energy."

"This is fer after all 'is energy is sucked outta 'is body, Doctor. We're not connectin' it jus' yet."

"Then what are we doin' before, Scotty?"

Scotty hesitated for a moment before going back to tinkering.

"…Scotty?"

Scotty lowered his head.

"Dammit, Scotty, answer me!"

"Ah'm gonna absorb the shock of his system to drain all the electricity from his body. After tha' yer gonna plug the plug into 'im. After tha' he'll be fine. Everythin' else is basically fixed in 'im. This is th' 'ardest part of it."

Scotty was glaring determinedly into his eyes, daring him to refuse the ridiculous plan. Bones knew that this was a last resort; after all, there weren't many options left. But he still wasn't going to go without putting up a fight.

"_Dammit_, Scotty – "

"Doctor, Ah know it sounds a wee insane, but – "

"You just had a full restructure of your abdominal system! Your body can't take it, dammit, it's still healing!"

"It's all we have left, and ye know it."

"No. It most certainly is not."

When Spock spoke up, Bones whipped his head around to see him. Jim and Spock had been awfully quiet for most of the procedure, and Bones had almost forgotten they were there. Now he remembered.

"What is it, Spock? What else can we do?"

The Vulcan paused, not giving away anything on his face.

"I shall take the shock. I have not been injured as of yet during this mission, my body is three times as strong as a human's, and electric shock has never been effective to my species on the whole. I am the best candidate."

Bones paused. "I still don't like it, but that's a bit better than an injured patient with a restructured torso."

So Spock bent over Slistastostas, sent in some voodoo magic calming thoughts, and stuck his hand straight into the electric sparks of his body, disregarding the makeshift outsource plug Scotty had made. Jim somehow managed to simultaneously calm Bones and Spock while this was going on. Scotty just looked on silently. When it was over, Spock staggered back into the waiting arms of Kirk.

"Quick, Bones, Scotty! Get that alien back to life!"

Jim dragged Spock out of the hole with one light to Sickbay as Scotty and Bones were on the homestretch of the operation. All that was left after pumping electricity back into his system was to monitor the levels of the processes occurring in the patient's body. Or so Bones hoped. He wasn't one for positive thinking, and with his luck, some new ungodly disaster would soon strike.

And, kind of, one did.

After a moment of thought, Bones realized that their only translator, Spock, was gone.

"Dammit, Scotty, how the hell are we supposed to communicate with Slislistas or whatever the hell his name is? I don't know about you, but I sure don't have some batshit insane voodoo power that green-blooded hobgoblins do."

"Nay, Doctor. Ah suppose tha' we'll hafta tell him things through motions, ay?"

"Yeah, Scotty, let's play some goddamn Charades right in the middle of a crisis."

"'Ey, naew, Ah didnae say tha'! Les jus' taeke i' easy, naew, Doctor." Scotty smiled placatingly.

Bones sighed and calmed himself.

"Okay, fine, dammit. What's next on the list?"

Scotty's smile widened. "Well, as far as Ah figger it t' be, we oughta git 'im up and runnin' with yer specialty, Doctor."

"What the hell do you mean, my specialty?"

"Well, we hafta patch 'im back up naew, don't we?"

"Well, if you put it like that..."

When all of Slistastostas was finally put back together after some masterful teamwork, they shocked him with Scotty's makeshift plug to restart him.

They weren't planning on reawakening him.

Just as Scotty snapped the plug out, Slistastostas' eyes snapped open. The eyes were white in the center, surrounded by black, with a small light whirring deep within them.

Before Slistastostas could open his mouth, Bones laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. That seemed to do the trick, along with the look on Bones' face, filled with compassion and confidence.

"Now you just lay still, there, Mister Slislaslos. We gotcha safe right here." As Bones' compassion began breaking the seams of his demeanor, Bones' southern accent weighted down his speech more and more. "There ain't nothin' the matter with ya now, son, we done did this job right for ya. You just keep still, now, and we'll make damn sure you get on through."

As Slistastostas' eyes fluttered shut in trust, so did Bones' in fatigue. After an entire week of no sleep, Bones collapsed.

It was a good thing Scotty was there to catch him.

TBC


	4. Of Rest and Reparations

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 4: Of Rest and Reparations

((()))

Bones woke up in Sickbay on a cot. Even though it was pitch black, he knew exactly where he was. It was the feel of the place. He just _knew_ it, he knew it so well it scared him. Like he'd spent years and years in this very room. The smell, the texture of the air was different from every other place he'd been, so familiar that he couldn't shake the underlying feeling of nostalgia.

Blinking away this odd notion, Bones tried to hunch up onto his elbows. He couldn't move more than three inches up. He struggled a bit, and felt the restraints pulled over him from the medical cot.

"What the fucking hell? They're strapping down the goddamn doctor in his own medical cot now?" Bones growled, frustrated. "I bet they locked the goddamn door, too! Dammit!"

He knew exactly what was going on. It was the same thing he had done to Jim two assignments ago after he refused to stay in Sickbay. This was Jim's revenge. Bones could almost hear the sick bastard's cackling now. In fact…

The door slid open with a beep. The laughter was more audible now, and Bones knew exactly who it was. How could he not?

"Lights 15%, computer." Jim's Captainly voice, with a slight undercurrent of restrained hilarity.

"Affirmative." The lights came to a dim glow, and Bones squinted his eyes.

"How's the patient doing, Doctor?" Jim asked with a sparkle of mischief in his eye.

"Dammit, Jim, get me out of these goddamn restraints."

"Ah, you noticed?" Jim asked innocently. "Well, Doctor, it is my responsibility to ensure your safety after you've been heavily incapacitated."

"Dammit, Jim! Don't use my own words against me!"

"But Doctor, the restraints are helping you to heal; if they weren't there, you would just get up to shenanigans like no other. I know you too well, Bones."

"…Jim, goddammit, get me the fuck out of these restraints, or so help me God…"

Jim laughed and pulled up a chair.

"…I'll add three more mandatory physicals to your schedule. Complete with injections."

"Jesus, Bones, why didn't you say so before?!" Jim exclaimed, and started pulling off the straps of enforced fabric from Bones' arms.

"That's better." Bones rubbed his arms and sat up.

He sighed and flopped back down on the bed, closing his eyes.

"…How's Slislislisnas… oh, hell, whatever the fuck his goddamn name is?"

Jim chuckled. "He's pulling through just fine. He can even speak now, after a bit of manual rehabilitation. Spock is working with him to increase inter-species awareness and Uhura is documenting his native language. He's a smartass, too, learning Standard so fast. I couldn't believe it when he walked up and apologized to me for attacking me. Very polite, too. Kind of like Spock, in a way."

Bones sighed in relief.

Jim paused.

"…He's asking about you, too."

Bones opened his eyes. Jim continued to speak after another moment of gauging Bones' reactions.

"He's a very compassionate creature. He knows how much you had to work to save him, and he's thankful to you. He feels indebted to both you and Mr. Spock, actually. He wants to thank you personally when you're released."

"Ah, hell." Bones covered his eyes with his hand, but he couldn't hide the small smile creeping onto his face. "That goddamn silver son of a bitch."

"But that can probably wait a day or two. You still need to get some rest."

Bones thought for a minute. "Jim, what day is it?"

"Officially or unofficially?"

"Goddamn it, Jim, just answer the question."

"Officially, it's now October 30. But unofficially, it's the eighth day after we badass motherfuckers traveled back in time."

Bones laughed. "I see why it's unofficial."

Bones thought for a second. "Wait… Did I sleep for an entire day?"

"Sure did."

"Was it medically induced?"

"Hell no."

"Was I locked in here the entire time?"

"That would be an affirmative, Doctor."

"Why the hell am I still laying around? I have a job to do, dammit! There are still injured crewmen! I know, I documented all of them myself! They need to be treated! Where are they? Call them here, I'll treat them!" Jim held Bones down on the cot with a look.

Jim held up a placating hand. "Don't worry so much, Bones. They've all been taken care of. You just get some rest."

"Oh, just like Scotty was supposed to be taken care of before he was brought to me? Taken care of my ass!"

"Nurse Chapel took care of all the rest of the patients, Bones. Don't you trust her judgment?"

Bones stopped and then settled back down. "I s'pose so."

Again, there was a small silence.

"Bones, I think you're going to get a commendation from this one."

Before he could complain, Jim silenced Bones with another look.

So Bones settled for grousing. "What the hell for?"

Jim let out an unexpected spurt of laughter. "Oh, _I_ don't know. Your dashing profile when you hold up your medical tricorder, maybe."

"Jim, I don't want an award for what I've done. I lost crewmen." Bones' voice cracked and got quieter. "I lost Lieutenant Romaine. Scotty's all alone now."

Jim put his hand comfortingly on Bones' shoulder. "Hey, Bones, buddy. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it fucking was."

"No, it was not." Jim's voice suddenly rang with authority. "And you will not see it that way, goddamn it. Spock's right; you _are_ stupidly illogical sometimes."

Bones sat up indignantly. "How dare you take that goddamn green-blooded hobgoblin's side!"

Jim sighed, frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair. "Goddamn it, Bones, you pull off one impossible medical miracle after another, saving a decorated Chief Engineer and making a First Contact easier than hell, and I can't even commend you?"

"That's right." Bones sat up and stretched. He yawned. "And if you commend me on this one, Jim, I might have to amp up my list of vaccinations recommended per year."

"You wouldn't!"

"I would."

"Well then, I'll take it to the Federation Medical Board, because no way in hell am I not commending you."

Bones huffed and gave it up.

"Fine, dammit." When Jim continued to glare, "I'll even show up."

Jim whooped in victory. Bones smirked before his face took on something serious.

"But you got to give one to Scotty, too."

Jim held up one hand to acknowledge him.

"Already done, Doctor. Already done."

Another comfortable pause.

"He's okay, then?"

"Who, Scotty?"

"Who else would we be talking about, Jim?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure, he's fine. Chapel checked up on him a few times manually, since he wouldn't check in. He's been working on the ship again, and we're trying to stop him, but for the most part, I think it'll do him good to stop thinking about it."

They paused this time, and this silence was heavy. Bones' head dipped down from the weight on his shoulders.

"Goddammit." He said quietly, with just enough emphasis to make Jim's eyes close and clench together in an attempt not to let it show.

Bones' hands curled into fists, and his back curled so that he was completely inside himself, hidden by his hugged knees.

Bones knew that Scotty was in serious pain, grieving the loss. But Bones knew that the one who was hurt the most was Jim, who had to report to the families, who had to deal with the pain of everyone else, who had to dig out the pain from everyone else. Scotty had lost one loved one – Jim had just lost more than twenty.

Now that he thought about it, it made sense to Bones more and more that he was the one who should be making these types of moves, and not Jim. It was ridiculous for a Captain to take on the duties of his Chief Medical Officer, and it pained Bones to see Jim going through so much pain for his sake. He knew that a Captain still had to make the call, but it was the least Bones could do to make the psychological reports on the close members of the deceased.

He resolved to reform that in the future. Jim shouldn't have to go through the entire process by himself.

He sighed and straightened himself.

"I'm ready for duty, Captain."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious, Jim. The only thing wrong with me was lack of sleep."

"Well, have it your way, you stubborn son of a bitch. You're perfectly healthy. But there's no way in hell you're working now. You're on leave."

"Jim…"

"Look, Bones, the Enterprise just went to hell and back. It needs to be repaired. Besides…" Jim paused again. "All of the funerals are going to happen this week."

Bones took this in.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Both of them were quiet again, contemplating the enormity of the losses sustained.

"Jim…"

"Yeah, Bones?"

"Never mind."

"Bones, don't leave me hanging with that shit."

"Fine, kid, I won't, dammit." Bones swung his legs over the side of the cot. "I'm going to take charge of all the psychoanalysis."

Jim looked up, surprised. "Okay, if you think you should."

"Yeah."

"Okay, then."

There was another silence, both of them mulling over what had happened to their ship. They felt comfortable in the silence.

Bones spoke up again.

"Jim…"

"What, Bones?"

"That stash of alcohol you were trying to find is in the first storage box in my office on the left."

Jim hopped up and strode into his office. "Which do you want?"

"Just pull out the red wine."

"Are there glasses in here too?" Jim called from the other room.

"They're in the next compartment." Bones called back.

And so, here they were again, sipping vin rouge in Sickbay, trying to spice the silence with confessions of regrets and feelings.

One after another, first Jim and then Bones, they confided in each other all of their doubts and remorse's about the previous mission. When they got through another heartbreaking strand of pain or loneliness, they clinked their glasses together. There was no criticism, only complete sympathy and attempted understanding. They were just trying to let everything loose.

When the bottle was empty, Jim and Bones tapped glasses once more before downing the last gulp of wine.

"To the Enterprise." Jim always gave the toast.

"Amen to that." And Bones always agreed with it.

"You know, Bones, we gotta get you to your quarters."

"Ah, yeah, kid, I know, I gotcha."

Bones stood up slowly and slung his arm over Jim's shoulders. He was in no condition to walk by himself, after all that wine and not enough recuperation. The wine might have been a bad move, but Bones couldn't bring himself to care. Taking care of Jim's battered emotions was more important to him.

"Ya know, Jim, we gonna hafta get us some more wine fer next time." Bones knew his southern accent was creeping back in, but he couldn't stop it. He was too tired.

"What makes you think there's going to be a next time?" They stumbled into the hallway.

"Mmm, well, I s'pose it was my goddamn near perfect insight." Bones sighed. "We ain't got 'nuff liquor to last more n' two more missions, son."

Jim chuckled. "I guess every mission is like this one, huh? They all turn out to be just as dangerous as the last one."

"Damn straight, Jim. Every single goddamn one." They were reaching his quarters, now, and Bones knew his fatigue was catching up to him again once the doors came in sight.

"Shit, Jim, I'm so goddamn _tired_." Somehow Bones had made it inside, and flopped down on his bed like a goddamn ragdoll.

"Don't even worry about it, Bones. Nobody is even going to call you in here, I'll make sure of it. I'll check up on you tomorrow and bring you a shiny visitor if you're feeling up to it."

"Affirmative, Captain," mumbled Bones, as he drifted into sleep.

((()))

Jim brought him some food the next day at lunch time, some of the things he loved. The most memorable was the authentic Georgia peach.

"Jim, how the hell did you get this peach?" Bones held it up to the light, doubting its very existence.

Jim smirked. "Well, it seems like a Starship Captain can get almost anything when he needs it."

"I'm gonna hafta get in on _that _connection, Jim, if you know what I mean."

"Sure, sure." Jim laughed. "I'll personally hook you up."

"Good." Bones felt the fuzzy skin of the peach with his thumb, closing his eyes and just allowing the aroma to drift up into his nose. "_Damn_, it's been a long time since I've had one of these... Another reason to hate space travel."

He reverently held the peach up to his mouth and brushed his lips over the soft fuzz. Then Bones took a bite.

Immediately, Bones froze in place. His jaw stopped mid-crunch, and his entire body tensed.

"That good, huh?" Jim laughed. "I haven't seen _that_ in a while."

Bones' face was filled with awe, and slowly disbelieving delight.

"Jim, this peach..." He didn't complete the sentence. He couldn't form another coherent thought.

Not about to rush the moment, Bones took his sweet time in eating that slice of golden heaven from Mother Earth herself.

JIm knew it was no use talking to Bones to try to get any response, so he just talked about whatever he wanted to. Meaning, lectures on nuclear science he'd been pondering, ethical issues surrounding his captaincy, and new developments with the whole 'Spock friendship' thing he had going on. Bones barely registered most of the science, but rolled his eyes when Jim started going on about Spock.

"Please, Jim, don't ruin this peach for me. Talk about somethin' else."

"Sure, Bones." Jim stopped for a second. "But you know, Spock is really something else when it comes to phenotype versus genotype. He can tell plants apart just by looking at them which genotype they are, even if they're heterozygous! Isn't that amazing? He's going to try to explain some of the key differences to me when we have our epic game of chess later this month."

"Jim... Have you heard about his chess record? Dammit, man, he's a grandmaster. Chess is all about logic, and logic is his game." Bones got pulled into it somehow. He usually did. Jim always pulled him into whatever he was talking about.

"But Bones, that's my entire point - life isn't about logic, it's all about innovation. Even if Spock's logic is perfect in a game of chess, if it's all in response to another player with no imagination, he'll be beaten." Jim spread his hands earnestly. "If all he ever does is act logically, then he can never reach the truly creative, and in this case, win a game."

"Jim, he's a goddamn _grandmaster_. I think it's possible that he _might_ have won a few games before."

"Yeah, yeah, but not against _me_. We've never played before."

"Well, that might not be the case in another month. You just wait and see."

"I'll do that." Switching topics like lightning, Jim continued on his rampage.

Bones sat back in his chair, not really paying much attention. He was glad Jim was gibbering like a goddamn monkey again, because it meant that he was beginning to get back to normal, dealing with his loss and moving on for the moment.

"So Bones, what do you think?" Jim smirked at him; he knew Bones hadn't been listening, didn't he?

"What the hell do you want, kid?" Bones sipped his drink.

Jim sighed in mock agony. "What does a man have to do to get a straight answer?"

"Ask his goddamn question again."

"Deep, Bones. Real deep."

"Just ask it, goddammit."

"What do you think of Uhura, Bones?"

Bones started. "The little lieutenant on Communications?"

"Yeah, Bones."

Bones pondered that for a moment.

After a while, one sound came out. "Hm."

"Oh, is that the answer I get?"

"Be patient, kid. Might do you some good in the long run."

After he took another sip of his drink, Bones began to talk.

"I think she's young, maybe too young to be in a command position, like you, but full of energy, talent, and drive to make up for it. She's aggressive as hell, I don't think she'd settle for anything less than what she wants. And she's logical. Very logical." Bones paused and glanced at Jim. "She definitely is hard to please, and always looks for perfection in everything. That might be why she likes that green-blooded hobgoblin so much. And..."

Jim was looking down at the ground now.

"And she's very pretty, too, I suppose. She's too damn young for me, but you might have a good chance if her and Spock don't work out."

Jim abruptly stood up.

"No, no, I don't know about that, Bones."

Bones was startled at that. "Well, why the hell not?"

Jim started making large gestures to try to explain himself. The words that came from his mouth were rushed. "Well, you know, when I have a girl under my command, I can't just sleep around with her. Uhura used to just be a pretty girl at the Academy, but now she's my lieutenant. Besides, she's a friend now, not someone who I can play around with, you know? Yeah, I know I still blatantly flirt with her all the time, but it's not like I'm serious, it's just the way I am, you know? I would never do something that would disrespect her, and even if she is really pretty, which she is, I can't really see her that way anymore, because she's just, she's just like, she's a person who looks up to me and respects me because of my rank and my talents, and I can never really break that wall anyway because she's all about things like commitment and fidelity and she can't see those things in me, and, well, jeez, Bones, do you get me?"

Bones thought for a moment.

"You're trying to tell me... That you ain't interested in Uhura? And that you can't date anyone who you like as a friend?"

Jim relaxed and smiled. "Exactly."

Bones thought for another moment.

"Are you sure about that second one? Because I know for a fact what 'chess' usually stands for."

Jim looked like a deer caught in the headlights, according to Bones.

_"Bones!"_

"You think I'm blind, kid?"

"Well, no, but I didn't think that anyone would notice."

"Son, it's more obvious than Sulu."

Jim sat down slowly, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

"But don't worry so goddamn much, Jim. Spock is completely blind about these things. He needs straightforwardness for him to notice anything."

"Is it really that obvious...?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Jim."

And just then, Jim's communicator beeped. Jim jerked out of his reverie.

"That'll be Slistastostas now."

But it wasn't.

"Captain, we are in the briefing room. Is the Doctor ready for the meeting or will he need an additional period of time for mental recuperation?"

Jim rolled his eyes with a smile, knowing Bones was watching him. "No, Mr. Spock, we'll be there momentarily." He flipped the communicator shut.

"What the hell is this meeting? And what the hell was that? _Mental recuperation_?"

"Bones, I had to say something. I don't think telling Slistastostas that the reason you couldn't meet with him right away was because we had to have a bottle of wine and some manly heart-to-heart."

"Yeah, in the future I would rather have you say the mental recuperation excuse."

"Anytime."

And then they got going.

The halls were still hellish, broken down and burned, as soon as they stepped out of Sickbay. Teams were everywhere as they got closer and closer to the briefing room, trying to fix the damage. Bones was glad he didn't need any help walking anymore, because too many people under his command would have seen him walking like a cripple.

Though he supposed it actually didn't matter, because he was scary as hell to his deserving underlings, limp or no limp. He turned his mind to other things.

"Jim, tell me again why we're still on this ship."

"Because, Bones, the beaming systems aren't operational yet. Everyone who's gone down to the planet has had to go by shuttlecraft."

"Makes a helluva lot of sense to me."

"Aren't you glad we don't have to beam down for this meeting?"

"Always am when that damn beaming system is down."

Jim chuckled as they made their way through the halls. It was like the Red Sea was parting, with all of the workers scrambling to get out of the Captain's way. Bones would bet that Jim didn't even notice anymore. He probably thought that they treated everyone that way now.

Finally, they were there. Jim manually opened the door, and the two commanding officers stepped into the briefing room.

The first thing Bones saw was Slistastistastaslaslos or whatever the hell his name was. He was bigger than Bones remembered, with the girth of an enormous bear and the height of about ten feet. Maybe it had something to do with him standing up straight instead of keeling over on the ground from wounds. Something Bones hadn't been able to see in the cave was his hair - it was thin, gold metal that fell into a curvy, wavy pattern on his silvery head. Bones wondered why there would be a need for hair, but he supposed there was some_ logical _reason that he couldn't _possibly_ fathom.

Then he spoke. Even his voice was metallic.

"Chief Medical Officer McCoy. I am Slistastostas the Siresian. You may address me as Slistas, if it so pleases you, as I have heard my name is difficult to properly pronounce."

"Well then, Slistas, it's nice to be formally acquainted with you. You can cut the address to just Doctor McCoy, Doctor, or even Bones, I suppose."

"Thank you for your invitation of informality, Doctor McCoy."

"Of course."

Slistas outstretched his hand, glancing back at Spock for confirmation. Spock gave a slight nod.

"Would it be too much to ask a handshake of you, Doctor McCoy?"

"No trouble." Bones shook hands with him, and then the four of them sat at the table.

Slistas was given the go ahead by Spock, and it began.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Slistas queried.

Kirk responded, "Well, we have little to no information on the Colony XI where you were held. Mr. Spock informs me that you were held there against your will?"

"Yes, Captain. That is so."

"Can you further inform us of the circumstances that you endured on the colony?"

"No, I cannot."

"Why not?"

"I am unable to recount any of the following events after my capture until the moment I woke when Commander Spock initiated a mental trasference."

Jim glanced at both Spock and then Bones. Spock nodded, and Bones just creased his forehead.

"Are you informing me that you had no control over your actions when you were attempting to destroy the Enterprise?"

"That is correct. I was responding according to instinct, and possibly to the memory files that have been deleted."

"Deleted?"

"Captain, I have studied the works of carbon-humanoid anatomy under Commander Spock, and it appears that the minds of carbon-humanoids do not work similarly to those of the Siresians. I believe the proper analogy drawn is that our brain works like a computer. My memory is stored here - " Slistas tapped his head, " - and it seems as if those files have been damaged from this specific timeframe purposefully. I have knowledge and control over the functions of my body, and I recognize the effects of tampering."

"Could Mr. Scott theoretically fix the damage?"

"It is a possibility, but I would still not remember the needed information. In order for me to remember, I would need the files."

"You mean, someone actually operated on your head to pull them out?" Bones interjected. "They didn't just damage your brain, they pulled part of it out?"

"Negative, Doctor McCoy. The damage inflicted was all electrical in nature. Advanced machinations manipulated the placement of the files within my body after scrambling the behavioral and decisive brain function algorithms."

"So they're lost somewhere in you?" Bones pondered for a second. "Jim, I think it would be best to call up Scotty."

"After we figure out exactly what needs to be done. You said it yourself, Bones, Scotty needs some rest."

"Truer words never spoken."

"Moving on... Slistas, about Colony XI, is there anything you can remember at all? About how you arrived there? Do you know why you were there?"

"I recall the fact that my stay there was over a period of time classified as decades."

Jim looked at Spock, who typed the information into a PADD with his long fingers.

"Also, I know that I did not travel there by choice. I was taken from my home and family. I know not of the craft that took me, but I was stolen from my clan with no warning."

Spock's fingers stilled, Jim's tapping foot froze, and Bones' elbow slipped from the table.

"I have no idea as to why I was taken, nor to what purpose I was put to when I reached the planet. These are facts only uncovered by my reclamation of memory files, most likely."

Captain Kirk crossed his arms and laid them on the table, his face completely serious.

"Slistas, you will be returned to your clan, make no mistake. All the injustices you have endured will be in turn put to justice."

"Thank you, Captain." Slistas closed his eyes in a sign of respect and trust.

"Slistas, is there any way for us to help you reclaim your memory?"

"There are many ways, but I fear that these ways are vague, and incur danger."

"Such as?"

Slistas hesitated for a millisecond.

"Returning to the memory, reliving the memory. Going to the planet, and seeing the familiar sights and hearing the familiar sounds, might spark the similarities. My search engine could theoretically pick up the hidden memory files from such stipulations."

Jim smiled. "It seems like amnesia isn't so different from species to species after all."

Slistas cocked his head to the side, confused. "Your meaning, Captain?"

Bones smiled. "He means that we use the same methods of obtaining _our_ lost memories."

"Most interesting, Slistas." Spock spoke up. "We must do a comparative analysis between the carbon-humanoid and the metallic-humanoid in the future based on behavior and mental responses."

"Indeed, Commander. It would be my pleasure to work with you on this venture."

Jim closed the formal meeting. "Well, then, gentlemen, let's head to lunch. Slistas, would you care to join us at 1300 hours in the Mess Hall?"

"It would be my pleasure, Captain. Where should I reside in the meantime?"

"You may accompany us, or you could possibly see an Engineer for the type of sustenance you require." Mr. Spock stated.

Slistas left for Engineering, leaving the three commanding officers to mesh out a plan of action in the cafeteria.

"Well, it seems that not all is right in Colony XI. Kidnapping, torture, and diplomatic deception."

Stabbing vengefully into a tomato, Jim asked the all-pervading question.

"What the hell do we do now, gentlemen?"

"I have an outline of a plan, Captain."

"Go ahead, Mr. Spock."

"First, we must fully restore our crew and ship to full efficiency, most evidently. Then, the next step is the infiltration of Colony XI."

"Go on, Mr. Spock."

There was a hesitation.

"It is highly dangerous and could result in the ceasing of talks between the Federation and the Colony."

"Go on, Mr. Spock."

"Captain, I believe the next action that we must take is to return to Colony XI and have the talks with the representatives of the Zanabares people as planned. After the negotiations have begun, crewmen would infiltrate the culture of the colony. Trouble would occur, such as a violent interaction, to draw attention away from the operation at hand."

"Of course, Mr. Spock. Of what would this operation entail?"

"Captain, the operation would likely evolve according to the results found and analyzed at the planet's surface. Adaptation to the circumstances will be necessary for each phase of the infiltration."

"So, you're telling me we're going to be shooting from the hip, huh?"

"...Captain, hopefully no firearms will need to be used in this venture."

Jim laughed. "A colorful turn of speech, Mr. Spock." Then he flipped back to being serious. "Since this operation is so on the fly, every one of my officers is going to be carrying a phaser."

Then, Captain Kirk began the highly intellectual visual plot of his quickly forming plan by arranging the carrots, lettuce, and the spinach on his plate. He started asking questions, bouncing them off of Spock and Bones, hardly ever waiting for an answer and rolling ahead as fast as his mind could go.

"Okay, so, how the hell are we supposed to get Slistas to the surface without the Zanabares picking him up, how the hell do we hide him on the surface, where do we head to infiltrate, and who do we pick for the teams? I want people who have combat training, Spock. Find me a list of twenty people in advanced levels of combat training. I recommend Sulu and Cupcake for a start, but moving on." He shifted the biggest piece of lettuce as Spock began rapidly typing up a list. "This is the basic plot of the land where we are going to beam onto. This is the capital building where we'll be talking, this is a storage area, I suppose, and could you check the use of this particular building, Mr. Spock?"

A moment. "It is labelled as a recreational building, sir."

"Okay, then. All of the surrounding buildings are for shipbuilding or landing. Any other major buildings in this area are unknown by Starfleet. When we arrive on the planet, look out for any buildings or areas that were not mentioned by the Zanabares, because that will indicate that they don't want us to know about it. That's where we'll start with the infiltration. Mr. Spock, if you would, please test the sensors on these coordinates as soon as we are in orbit and run it past the given information. That will make it a bit easier, I suppose." He munched on a piece of lettuce. "Make sure you don't limit sensors to aboveground, Mr. Spock. Whatever they may be hiding, I don't believe it will stay where it can be easily seen. Check for tunnels, underground storage units, anything. Remember, we're trying to find an entire group of kidnappers who torture their prisoners, and if they're allowing us to check in on them, it's going to be hidden where we don't usually look."

"Yes, sir."

"The method we'll use to get Slistas onto the planet will be the really tricky part; convincing the Zanabares that we need metal luggage down there is next to impossible. He will, of course, need to pass off as some type of metal contraption. What will we disguise him as? A new type of machine that could help the Zanabares somehow? Spock, what is their major export?"

"They farm many different species of grains and vegetables, Captain."

"Jesus, Jim, why couldn't we just pass him off as a Starfleet officer? Why does he have to pass as a machine?"

"Well, they could just check our records and our game would be up."

"Well, Jim, we could generate human skin over his platinum skin and he could almost pass as a human. I could do the job with my dermal regenerator in about a half an hour."

"What about his eyes?"

"Well, maybe he could wear colored contact lenses."

"That sounds good, but what about his identity? Mr. Spock?"

"I could possibly formulate a false record of Slistas' history and enter him as a member of our crew."

"That's good, so he'll be disguised as a human."

"Well, he'll have to agree to it."

"Of course, Bones. But it _is_ our best option. Moving on. We disguise Slistas. We send him with the infiltrators to find the torture chambers so that he can remember the awful things that happened to him. Then we can use him in a trial against his perpetrators and we can piece together the entire picture of what's going on here."

"Captain, there is a possibility that relations with the Zanabares government will seriously decline if we go through with this plan."

Jim grinned. "Not if we're careful. Remember, the Zanabares government might be trustworthy, or they might be deceiving us. They could be behind this entire thing. If they aren't, then they should be thankful for our intervention in this strange torturing situation."

"What if they don't want us to intervene in this, Jim?"

"Well, Bones, this torture bullshit is the reason why I lost more than twenty men last week. If the Zanabares want us to stay the hell out of their business, we have _our_ business to take care of." Jim's face hardened. "If I have to, I'll take the responsibility for starting a war with Colony XI and the Federation."

The table was suddenly silent. Bones was hit with the magnitude of the situation.

"In the meantime, we have a few weeks to recuperate." Jim cracked his carrot in half with his teeth. "This gives us ample time to fill in small details and gather any information about the Zanabares not in the databanks of the ship. Spock, you continue to work with Slistas on that comparative species project. Bones, you'll be doing the psychs on the crewmembers who lost friends and family, but if you have time, I want you to work with Spock on that. Spock, make sure Scotty is informed about Slistas' problems and brief him as you see fit. Oh, and I want all information briefed to me at the end of each day on each project. If either of you have any great ideas on how to improve the extremely vague plan we have so far on infiltration, you include it in your brief. Don't inform any of the crew of this operation. We'll tell only when we need to to who we need to tell, which means that when formal repairs start on the Enterprise, we'll inform the combat units of our findings and basic plans of action."

"Yes, sir." Bones and Spock said it in unison.

"That's it for lunch, gentlemen. Now all that's left is to brief Slistas on these new designs."

And so Spock ended up explaining the whole thing, as Jim was called away for a meeting on Earth. Apparently those goddamn beaming machines were operational again.

And Slistas agreed to the slightly insane plan the three of them had cooked up.

So according to Jim, things were smooth sailing.

But as Bones fell back into his old leather armchair in his quarters, taking mouthfuls of his flask, his tired eyes closed in something he wouldn't recognize as defeat. Every wounded man that had passed through his hands had left a scar on his heart. Those young boys hadn't known what they were signing up for, and now they were lost. And it was fault they were gone. He could perform as many medical miracles as the next Doctor Houdini, but that was so limited to the perfect conditions, with teams of impressionable little specialists flocking around. In a disaster, there weren't any teams, there weren't any goddamn hi-tech utensils. A doctor only has his tricorder, hypo, and instinct to follow.

Sure, Spock and Jim could blast forward through travesty after travesty, no matter how scarred they were. He had seen it dozens of times already, each one doing exceptional work, perfect work, in fact, no matter how damaged. Bones knew that they weren't held back by their limited resources, and that they always fought with what they had to the perfect result.

But Bones couldn't do that. Kirk and Spock were young, so young. But Bones... Bones was old, now. His heart was covered with scars, so broken.

It was a strong heart, a stubborn heart. It was like a train with sparking wheels and rusty breaks, pounding on through the disaster and unable to stop after it was over.

So yes, Bones did his job, and he did it damn well.

But he was still _there_.

In _that _moment, where the blood and the stench and the screams had taken their toll.

He was in the moment where he couldn't comprehend the pain, couldn't see the end of the tunnel, couldn't understand the _meaning_ of it all.

Bones took another swig of his flask.

Sometimes Bones thought that he felt too much. He felt the pain of every single patient that he treated, so that they all left an impression, weighing down on his shoulders, mind, and heart.

And he was alone.

_Painfully_ alone.

Yes, Bones had Jim and the rest of the crew. He knew that he was surrounded by friends. But every night, when he went back to his cabin, ready to fall asleep, he was always struck with how _empty _the room was.

There was furniture, there was entertainment, but there was no one else.

Bones had always been a loner, but ever since his divorce, he couldn't seem to ever get comfortable with himself. Maybe it was because he finally knew now what it meant to have someone, so he knew what he was missing. No giggles, no crayon scribbles, no thudding footsteps.

Bones missed his daughter. He missed knowing that he was going to watch her grow up, knowing he was going to teach her how to live in the real world. He missed his wife caring for him after he got back home from work, and cooking him dinner, and filling his coffee cup.

He missed someone having his back.

Bones drank and drank and drank until he fell back into his armchair, back into the blackness, back into sleep.

The last thought he had before he passed out was that he was going to have a helluva hangover the next morning.

((()))

End of Part 4


	5. Of Annoyance and Angst

Technical Difficulties 5

Of Annoyance and Angst

((()))

Bee-beep.

"Mmmg." He stirred.

Bee-beep.

"Hmmm?" He rolled over.

Bee-beep.

"…Goddammit." Bones smashed the alarm clock off with a vengeance. He had forgotten to turn the damn thing off last night. Well, he _had _been kind of inebriated. On a side note, he needed to change the 'bee-beep' sound. It sounded too much like that goddamn communicator noise. Goddamn annoying, that's what.

There was no way he was getting back to sleep after that god-awful noise, so Bones rolled reluctantly out of bed. Swaying back and forth uncontrollably, Bones made it to the bathroom and turned on the light.

That wasn't the best idea.

But Bones went through with it anyway, pushing past the pain of the hangover to take care of himself. He kept telling himself that he would feel much better afterwards, even though he didn't really believe that.

After he was done, Bones pulled on his crinkled uniform and set off to his office after making a cup of coffee. When he first sipped it, he singed his lips, so the entire workforce in his hall got to listen to his colorful and imaginative expletives as he stumbled grudgingly to Sickbay.

He actually didn't give a damn.

A prissy little repair lieutenant decided to get in his way, and she was _damn_ persistent. She stopped right in front of him, and refused to let him pass. She was adamant that he listen to everything that she needed him to hear, something about the repairs. It's not like Bones would have just pushed past; after all, she was a lady, and he was a gentleman.

"Look, ma'am, I ain't the right commandin' officer for you t' talk to." He sipped his coffee, trying to distract himself. "Find Lieutenant Commander Scott, ma'am, he's the Chief Engineer."

"Sir, with all due respect – "

He turned slightly away from her angrily, muttering under his breath and massaging his temple. "Goddammit, I'm a doctor, not a goddamn secretary."

Giving himself a second to calm down, Bones sighed.

She was still yammering on, babbling about some goddamn pipe that Bones didn't give a shit about.

She wouldn't fucking _stop_. The headache Bones had wasn't either, and it was _really_ pissing him off. The reserve patience Bones stored was running out.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Bones turned around with an angry glint in his eye, looking down on this goddamn lieutenant in all seriousness. The steam from his coffee swirled around his head, making him look all the more menacing.

"Lieutenant, this is an_ order _– "

"Ah see ye've fixed up jus' fahyne, Doctor!"

Bones snapped out of his killing intent immediately. "Scotty!"

"Aye, Doctor, tha's me."

"You've been feelin' alright?"

"Aye, Doctor. Ah'm as fit as a bloomin' flow'r, Ah am."

Bones grinned. "I see. Working again?"

"You betcher ass, Doctor!"

It seemed like the lieutenant had realized her mistake, because she was silent as hell. The relief from pain alerted Bones to this realization, as well as the remembrance of her presence.

"Well, it seems that this lady needs your assistance, Scotty. Something about the repairs...?" Bones vaguely gestured towards the lieutenant behind him. "I've gotta be in Sickbay, so I gotta run."

"Aright, Doctor, we'll have tha' drink soon, then?"

"Sure, Scotty. Whenever." Bones clapped Scotty on the shoulder as he passed.

The headache wasn't gone, but the annoying lieutenant sure was. He would have to thank Scotty somehow. Even though he had been severely detained by that goddamn lieutenant, he didn't dash through the halls, he leisurely strolled in the direction of Sickbay. Bones never ran anywhere unless it was an emergency. Even though he really needed to get to Sickbay for that hangover hypo.

But it was not to be. Just as he rounded the corner to the turbolift, Spock appeared. Trying to scurry by, Bones ducked his head and turned to the side, bringing his cup to his lips and looking off into the distance.

It didn't work.

"Doctor McCoy. I was presently engaged in the task of determining your whereabouts."

"Dammit, Spock, could this wait, say, ten minutes?"

"Doctor, this is of supreme importance."

He glanced around, his Vulcan eyes flickering for a moment. Bones almost missed it.

Bones sighed. "Well, fine, but don't expect me to get all excited over it. Not in the right _mood_, if you know what I mean." He considered his audience. "Not that you would."

"All jokes aside, Doctor, we must discuss this in private."

Bones waved his hand apathetically. "Lead the way, Spock."

And so Bones followed Spock through the halls. He was amazed that he had made it this far with such a terrible hangover. In fact, it was amazing that he could still walk.

They reached Spock's quarters. Here, Bones paused, unsure. He had never been inside Spock's quarters before, and it seemed just a little too intimate. If someone saw him going in, they might even think they were _friends_ or something.

"Doctor. Come in."

It was not a question nor a request; it was more like a command. Not up to dealing with Spock's bullshitty social skills, Bones stalked on in, not even glancing around. He saw a chair, he beelined towards the chair, and sat in the chair. Bones didn't mess around when it came to this shit.

"Okay, Spock." Bones settled in and allowed himself to see the room's decorations. There weren't many, but the few that ordained the walls were complicated, intricate, and ornate. "What do you need a little old country doctor for?"

"Doctor... I seem to be having..." Spock's head dipped slightly.

"Trouble enunciating properly? That will come with severe repression." The joke that came out of Bones' mouth was detached; Bones was worried. He knew trouble when he saw it, and the look on Spock's face, while regular on a human, was absolutely contorted in pain for a Vulcan.

"I am... unaware of the cause, but I do have a theory." Spock straightened again, the cool composure drawing over his face like a sheet.

"What is it, Spock?"

"I seem to be experiencing someone else's emotions, Doctor."

"...How long has this been happening?"

"For approximately half a year, Doctor."

"My god, man! And you haven't informed anyone?"

"They.. have never been so... painful before, so wholly unconnected to myself. I had not realized that they were not my own. I was simply repressing them as I do all of my emotions. Now, they become too strong, in unpredictable phases so that I am unable to work efficiently when they strike during my work hours."

Bones decided that it was too early in the morning for this psychic shit. Then he snapped back up again, with a PADD in his hand to take notes.

"Give me an account of exactly what these episodes are like."

((()))

When Bones scrolled back through Spock's account later, when he had left and was walking down the hallway again, he realized something. The emotions that Spock felt from the feelings that weren't his, the stronger ones, dealt mostly in pain, grief, anger, and overwhelming sadness. There were apparently softer feelings like desire and happiness that were strong, but Spock didn't seem to mind those as much; they didn't actually harm him. Bones had asked when he had felt these foreign feelings and had made a scheduled timetable, so when his realization hit him, he had somewhere to check his theory.

He was right.

He figured he would keep it to himself for now, though it would have to come out eventually. He grinned before strutting into the turbolift at last. There were a couple of people already on it, but they were going to the same floor, so Bones didn't have to worry about the goddamn turbolift stalling and shutting him in; one of the men was a lieutenant for Engineering.

Just as the doors were starting to close, just as he was finally going to reach his Sickbay haven, Bones heard a voice calling for the turbolift to stop. It was slightly desperate and ridiculously dramatic, so Bones slammed the button and the turbolift opened the doors once again. Bones was polite if anything, and this was just a small little favor. He could put off Sickbay for a few more seconds, couldn't he? He knew he couldn't deserve to be selfish, especially with the luck he had.

The young man who had cried out rushed into the turbolift, framing the door with his thin, lean physique. His face was plain but alighted with passion. His focus was completely zoned in on something behind Bones' shoulder. He turned to see a young lady wearing blues, with blond hair, flushed cheeks, and a look of shock on her face.

"Gregory...!" She stammered. Greg shouldered his way through the crowd of about five people to her, slamming the stop button of the turbolift on his way.

"Maureen..." He grasped her hands, holding them up to his chest. "I've finally caught up to you."

Bones facepalmed. Oh, shit. Why did he get caught up in this kind of hell?

"But, Gregory..." Maureen didn't seem very bright for a Science officer; her response was a bit too delayed. "You didn't have to chase me."

Bones was considering banging his head against the wall. With his hangover, he decided against it.

"Maureen..."

"Gregory...?"

"_Maureen_..."

"_Gregory_..."

All this repetition had Bones thinking he was developing a tick.

"...Of course I had to, you silly goose, I'd follow you anywhere."

"Oh, Gregory...!"

"Oh, Maureen...!"

_"Oh, Gregory!"_

_"Oh, Maureen!"_

Oh, goddamn motherfucking Christ. Bones massaged his temple.

Gregory gallantly knelt before her, still holding her hands close to his heart.

Bones swayed a bit, and felt like vomiting. But that would be rude; Bones would make it through. He would get to Sickbay whether Fate wanted him to or not, dammit.

"Oh, Maureen, bright unknown anomaly of my viewscreen, would you take my hand in marriage?" His voice was low and smooth, but Bones looked at him in disgust. What the hell did he just say? _Unknown anomaly of my viewscreen?_ What kind of bullshit were kids coming up with these days?

Maureen blushed and did the whole 'embarrassed woman' act. Bones had seen that calculating move before. Not that he hadn't been annoyed by this pair before, but this really took the cake. _She's acting exactly like my ex-wife did. _Bones hoped his rampant disgust for the entirety of the situation wasn't too noticeable. He massaged his temple again. It seemed to help.

"Oh, Gregory!"

"Oh Maureen!"

_"Oh, Gregory!"_

_Oh, Maureen!"_

Oh, _goddammit._

This was going to last _forever_ if someone didn't intervene. Bones could go for a shipwide Red Alert right now. They always seemed to cut in on these types of scenes, so why not when Bones needed it most?

But it didn't start. So Bones just rolled his eyes and tried to gather his patience together for one last goddamn ride.

But then the kids started getting a bit too enthusiastic right there on the turbolift, wolfwhistles and cat calls and all, and Bones decided it was time to stop these shenanigans.

He coughed into his fist, trying to get their attention, but they were a bit involved. So he sighed internally and bit the goddamn bullet. He was going to look like the bad guy again, which he didn't actually mind. It was for a good cause, goddammit. Relieving a man of his pain.

"Lieutenant, Ensign." It was like they had been accidentally tossed into a cement pool, they were moving so slow. They didn't even seem to hear him, and were basically like statues except for their tongues.

So Bones stepped up to the challenge. He stalked over to the couple, right in front of them, with his hands tightly holding each other behind his back, in the standard Starfleet ease.

It was sort of awkward for the lovers, no lie. But Bones didn't give a damn.

"Lieutenant, Ensign, please refrain to professional behavior." He raised an eyebrow. "Or, in your case, just get a room."

It looked like the two of them were happy enough to brush it off, and so they skipped out of the turbolift and down the hall. Bones ruthlessly and violently hit the turbolift button again after the others had filed out, not seeming to want to board with such a hostile lieutenant commander.

That was absolutely _fine_ with Doctor McCoy.

The doors closed, and he felt the _whoosh_ in his stomach when he was traveling 70 km/s in a vertical direction. He shut his eyes and grit his teeth. Goddammit, he really hated being completely dependent on these goddamn machines, but Bones supposed he had to suck it up since he signed on for this type of shit. It wasn't that bad being on the turbolift; what he _really_ had problems with was that goddamn transporter machine. Fucking insane, to break yourself up into tiny molecules and throw them around. Some of his less fortunate patients had said that they _liked_ the feeling of it; Bones had made sure to get them fully tested for psychosis. These damn things were so unsafe, and got stuck all the damn time.

Speaking of which, the turbolift came to a stuttering halt. Bones almost fell over, but he caught himself on the wall before he could go down.

The lights blinked uncertainly, as if they wanted to go out but weren't sure they could handle Bones' wrath if they did. So they stayed on after a few seconds of indecision.

Bones righted himself fully, holding his arm, checking for a bruise. There was one blooming there already. He cursed under his breath.

He decided he had bigger problems than a bruised surgeon arm; Bones was fucking stuck in a turbolift, a small enclosed space that was an unreliable machine. He had no communicator and was worth shit at fixing machines. He also had a debilitating hangover.

Bones slumped to the ground. It was just too much, dammit. He was a doctor, not a goddamn masochist.

Bones passed out.

((()))

Jim pressed a button.

"Nurse, where is Doctor McCoy?"

"He has not arrived yet, Captain."

"Thank you, Nurse. As you were."

Jim tapped his pad controls again.

"Computer, where is Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy?"

"Turbolift B."

For a second, Jim was puzzled. Hadn't he just been talking to Nurse Chapel? The computer voice sounded a lot like her, now that the two voices were juxtaposed. But he had more important things to worry about. He checked the systems and saw that the turbolift had froze.

"Dammit..." he muttered under his breath.

Once more, Kirk hit his control pad with vigor.

"Security, assemble a team of capable engineers. Send them to Turbolift B. Recover Chief Medical Officer McCoy."

((()))

Scotty had been working on his new baby of a project when he got called on by Giotto. It was a beautiful little contraption, if he did say so himself. A bunch of little intersecting bands of metal wires. He'd gotten the idea from looking at that alien in surgery just the other day. It was extremely energy efficient, and resembled the heart he'd spied in the center of that whole mess. It would probably be enough to power an entire starship if he got it right and if it was big enough.

"Chief Engineer Scott!"

"Tha' would be me, lad." Scotty didn't turn away for a second. Sparks were flying through the air, and every single one seemed to miraculously miss his face.

"I'm Chief Security Officer Giotto... And I'm forming a team of specializing engineers on the Captain's orders."

"Fer what, lad?" Scotty grinned as a shower of sparks made Giotto jump.

"For... well, Turbolift B?"

Scotty paused, and the bouquet of sparks simmered down. "Wha's that ye say, lad?"

Giotto heard a distinct shift in his tone, from light to dark. He snapped into form.

"Turbolift B is broken, sir."

Standing, Scotty turned off the source of energy for his new little baby.

"But tha's not possible, lad. Ah've jus' fixed tha' turbolift." He turned to Giotto and gave him his full attention.

"I'm.. sorry, sir, that's what the Captain told me."

If Scotty had had a beard, he would have stroked it. Since he didn't, he just picked up a standard tool case and set off for the turbolift.

"Engineer Scott...! Don't you need a team...?"

Scotty smiled and said over his shoulder, "Ah _am_ th' team, lad."

((()))

It was easy, really. It seemed like one of the repair teams had just crossed a signal while they were putting new walls in the hallways. Scotty just switched them back and the job was done. The turbolift door opened. Scotty glanced in, and then a double take.

"Well, Ah didnae expect _this_."

Bones was sprawled out on the ground, roughly yet elegantly. His eyes were relaxed, smoothing the crease Scotty usually saw in between his eyes on on his forehead. He looked five years younger without them, not that he looked that old when he had them anyway. His lips were a bit open, dry and chapped. Some of his bangs were drifting freely over his closed eyes, and he was developing a light shade of five o'clock shadow. Scotty was betting that he had passed out from a hangover because he had done exactly the same thing too many a time.

Scratching his head, embarrassed, Scotty stepped into the turbolift.

((()))

Apparently Jim had called Sickbay looking for him and then set a pack of officers on his trail. His comm signature was easy to find, but the turbolift was still stuck. Not many could fix a stuck turbolift. Fortunately Jim had the best at his beck and call, and he got top-notch engineers working on it. It was done in about five minutes, the timing was that good. Bones was only stuck for about seven minutes, though he didn't know it.

Bones tried to sit up straight in his medical cot. His head was still swimming from his fall, but he felt a helluva lot better than he did before.

"Dammit, Jim, those goddamn turbolifts are hellish. You should do somethin' about it." He was finally in Sickbay, had finally gotten his hypo to get rid of his goddamn hangover, and had finally gotten out of that goddamn turbolift.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Bones." Jim grinned. He knew that Bones was genuinely phobic, but he was so dramatic about it. He couldn't help but razz him. He continued seriously. "It won't happen again, really. Those things are pretty safe; they only freeze about once per year."

And so Bones blamed his luck after blaming all of technology. Before he could voice this newfound blame, Jim interrupted him.

"Bones, Scotty had a great idea, though. The turbolifts are going to have sensors installed to automatically alert Engineering if they stall."

"That's a pretty damn good idea, Jim. He should get some kind of award for it."

Jim laughed. "Yeah, I'm working on it. In fact... what award do you _not_ have, Scotty?"

Bones turned his head. Sure enough, Scotty was there, sitting amicably across the room.

"Well, Captain, Ah think Ah've got 'em all covered."

"Well, Scotty, I suppose you'll have to suffer through a repeat."

"Ah think Ah'll manage, Captain."

"Good to hear, Lieutenant Commander."

"Ah hope ye pull on through, Doctor. Ah must naew return t' me new brainchild. Permission t' leave, Captain?"

"Permission granted."

So Scotty hopped back up, grabbed his tool set, and set off.

Bones smiled as he lay back in his cot. It wasn't a smirk or a grin, just a smile. "That Scotsman is a goddamn ray of sunshine, ain't he?"

"Yeah."

((()))

Scotty didn't go back to Engineering to work. After hauling the Doctor back to Sickbay, he had started to feel serious pain in his abdominal region, where he had had surgery. He was doubled over in pain as soon as he got into the hall.

Being the positive person he was, Scotty straightened up and walked away with a smile on his face. He even started whistling. Another man might have gone back into Sickbay and gotten it checked out, but Scotty was sure that some pain after his injuries was commonplace, even expected, to occur. He just had to get over it and stop his whining, if he wanted to get something done. He was already thinking of some new plans for his newest little baby. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, briskly trotting down the hall with a bounce in his step.

He was down the turbolift, down the hall, and down in Engineering before you could say bloody bagpipes, eager to get his hands on his new project again.

Keenser was sneaking up on the nacelle skeleton when Scotty hit him with a flying wrench. "Get daewn frum there, you bloody imbecile! This isn't a bloody climbing playground fer ye!" Keenser just squeaked, covered his head, and scuttled off, refusing to come down. Then Scotty realized that he had thrown his precious wrench across the entire Engineering.

"Me wrench!" Flustered, Scotty ran after it, pulling it gently from the dent in the wall and polishing it to a new shine, apologizing to it profusely.

Returning to his corner of Engineering, which was actually about the entire thing but he preferred one half to the other and set up most of his projects in the fourth of that half, but anyway, Scotty passed a familiar station for the first time since the last mission. He almost never went back here, usually; the only reason he had passed here was because of the thrown wrench. He stopped and looked a wee bit closer and saw the name imprinted in the paperwork, taking in a breath of surprise and sudden sorrow. He drew his fingers lightly over the panels and lights and buttons, finally crossing the name, committing the entire setup to memory, sitting in the chair and putting his face in his hands.

This used to be Mira's station.

He had never come to where she used to work every day because she had always managed to be in his corner with him, interpreting his Engineering parlance into her Science-speak, mixing the two into something magically captivating. Mira had always worn a lovely shade of blue, a shade that made her eyes pop like a punch into Scotty's face. He had had her installed into Engineering as a Science officer after the Captain suggested they start meshing the two groups for increased productivity and innovation, something which Scotty had definitely agreed with in an abstract sense. When he received his new pack of officers all in blue, he had seen her for the first time and just _knew_.

That lass had had a fire in her he had never seen in a woman before. She was devilishly clever, had a sense of humour, had a stubborn streak, and was amazingly brusque. She was a ball of fire rolling down a hill; Scotty had never met anyone quite like her. She spoke her mind and got what she wanted. At the same time, she was a caring, sweet lass who took good care of Scotty. Sometimes he never quite knew how the two of them got together, since he was almost ten years older than her, but since she was the one who had taken the initiative, Scotty was assuredly certain that he was not taking advantage of anyone.

And she was beautiful.

Long brown hair, flowing down to her shoulders in waves. Bright blue, mischievous eyes that looked directly into yours. An assured posture that was confident and aggressive, all weight on one leg and hands defiantly on her hips. Her curling smile and rebounding laugh.

Scotty had never been that interested in long-term relationships before, but this lass wouldn't take no for an answer.

It felt like a forever ago, but it had been right over there when she had demanded for more than friendship.

_"Scotty, come over here."_

_"Wha' 'tis it, lass?" He had been working with his nacelles again, but now his hands stilled._

_"Kiss me."_

_"...Come again, lass?"_

_"Montgomery Scott, you get over here and kiss me right now." _

That was her no-nonsense voice that meant that what she said what what she wanted, and she would get it if it damn near killed her.

So she got her kiss. And Scotty's heart.

And even though it felt fine now, Scotty's heart had been torn apart twice that day, once by that silver lad and once by the news. It had felt so painful to crack a smile there where the good Doctor told him the awful news, and it was hard now. But he always managed.

Suddenly, the pain came back, flooding his chest with a shooting, awful stand of white-hot torture. He grasped at his heart, and his right arm. Was his chest hurting like this because of his heartache, or because of his surgery? Scotty didn't have the answer, so he just assumed the best.

The only problem was, he wasn't sure which was the better option.

The pain faded away after what seemed like forever but was only a moment.

He crossed his arms and laid his head down on them, on Mira's workstation, curling up and hiding there. He wasn't quite sure what to do now...

What to do...?

Ah. Aha!

"Ah'll add tha' converter t' th' sequencing and cross the charges over so Ah caen connect th' Heart t' th' mainframe!" He was elated at his brilliant new idea, and rushed off to complete it. He surrounded himself with his machines and tools, ecstatic with his brainchild and oblivious to everything else.

He got his wee little Heart pumping and connected it to the ship.

((()))

"When are you gonna get back, Jim?"

"Whenever this next funeral service ends. They've been taking longer and longer as the week goes on."

"And where were you this morning, at about 900 hours?"

If Jim thought his strangely specific questions were odd, he didn't show it. "I was personally consoling the Robinsons for their loss."

"About Ensign Robertson?" Bones knew him, he was a medical science officer in training who came to Sickbay often.

"No, Lieutenant Robertson." Jim knew him, he was in upper Security command.

The next party finished beaming out, and Jim stepped up on the transporter in full dress uniform by himself.

"See you later, Bones."

"Sure thing, Jim."

As Jim winked out of existence, Bones made sure he reappeared on the other side before leaving to return to Sickbay. Today was the day to begin his psychoanalyses on the crewmembers still working aboard ship. Most of them were planetside, but some were on repair. Bones preferred to take care of his work early and taking these crewmembers off the job for psychoanalysis was as good for them as shore leave. These were the officers who preferred to work during normal shore leave and who buried themselves in their work in order to blot out the rest of life, a feeling Bones understood all too well. So he planned for them.

There were a total of 54 crewmen still working aboard, many being repair teams. A few were working their regular jobs, like Spock, Jim, and Scotty, not to mention Bones himself, but not many. Since he knew what to look out for, Bones started his schedule with these regulars and filling in the extra spaces with the repair teams. He'd finish the rest of the crew when they returned from a well-earned shore leave.

Scotty was first on the list.

Then Bones copied the list into the computer and sent it out to the stations. The heads of the repair teams and departments would recieve them and pass out assignments according to availability and time constraints. After finishing, Bones sat back in his chair and got out a bottle of Scotch.

He was going to need it.

After all, it wasn't every day that Scotty came to Sickbay.

((()))

End of part 5


	6. Of Wounds and Wordplay

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 6: Of Wounds and Wordplay

((()))

After a half an hour of waiting and no Scotty, Bones knew he wasn't going to show. Not that Scotty was usually late or anything; it was just that he knew Scotty was still working on his new little machine thing again. He was always too enthusiastic about his little projects, Bones thought. Sometime he needs to be weaned off of work during shore leaves and get some living in.

Sighing, Bones corked the Scotch and put it back in its hiding place. He had only had a few sips, so he should be fine going out and about the ship. Stretching, Bones headed out of Sickbay, loaded with a hypo and his tricorder. He never went anywhere without his tools if he could help it, especially if he was going to Engineering. Too many goddamn accidents in all that goddamn machinery. Sparks and wheels and shit, burning and crushing his patients' fingers and hands all the damn time. Though Scotty himself never actually came into Sickbay for one of those routine accidents, Bones was sure he was just not telling him about it.

Either that, or Scotty was damn good at getting himself through danger without a scratch, which Bones highly doubted. With all he's seen, a man would need a guardian angel and a helluva four-leaf clover to get through all that machinery and never get burned.

Which brought Bones to thinking about why, exactly, had Scotty not shown up to his appointment?

Option 1: He was working diligently on his project, and didn't see the alert.

Option 2: He was working diligently on his project, and refused to comply because of his mechanical obsession.

Option 3: He was working diligently on his project, and got injured to the point of unresponsiveness.

Option 4: He was working diligently on his project, and alien attacked him and took him over. It had only happened once, but Bones knew that it was possible.

Option 5: He was working diligently on his project, and a strange spore-like entity took over his machines and took him hostage. Ugh, dammit, not again. Bones fucking hated those goddamn spores.

Option 6: He was working diligently on his project, and got kidnapped by a crazy alien bent on revenge for something or other.

Option 7: He was working diligently on his project, when his project morphed into an angry hellion bent on the ship's destruction.

Option 8: He was working diligently on his project, when his project suddenly came to life and demanded Spock's brain for infernal purposes. That was a bitch to solve.

Option 9: He was working diligently on his project, when he decided to go to lunch.

Option 10: He was working diligently on his project, when a crewmember revealed himself to be a robot traitor and then he was carted off to some planet or other filled with robots and studied for an extended period of time. It definitely wouldn't be the first time.

Bones thought that that was enough speculation, and considered his options. Goddamn starship and its infinite possibilities. Whatever the case was, Scotty had definitely been diligently working on his project.

Before leaving, he thought it was only fair to try communicating first. So he pulled out his communicator and patched a line through to Lieutenant Commander Scott.

"Aye, Doctor, what cannae do fer ya?"

Well, that shot most of Bones' theories to hell. Good so far.

"Scotty, you've got an appointment in Sickbay."

"What tayme should Ah be there, Doctor?"

"Half an hour ago."

"Well, Ah'll be there as soon as possible, then, Doctor."

Bones knew that he wasn't out of the water yet. 'As soon as possible' could mean anything to Scotty, especially if he was working obsessively again on his little thing.

"How about in less than five minutes?"

"Aye, Doctor."

Snapping his communicator shut, Bones settled back down into his chair and called the nurse.

"Nurse Chapel here, sir."

"Nurse, I'm starting the psychoanalysis meetings in about five minutes. I don't know how long the session will be, so just take care of any minor accidents or injuries in the main chamber of Sickbay. I'll be using my office. Don't let anyone in unless it's a shipwide emergency or the Captain. Be here in five minutes or less."

"Yessir."

The brandy was brought out once again, along with a pair of cups.

And so Bones was all set.

He checked the digital clock on the wall, and saw that it was getting late. He steeled himself for another all-nighter.

The clock ticked, the engines of the ship hummed, and the computer gave out a soft _bleep!_ every so often. The couch was almost too comfortable, sinking into it, with its massive cushions especially made for comfort. The chair at Bones' desk was infinitely more stiff and infinitely less accommodating. The ceiling was blank like a slate, ready to be written on with thoughts and speech. Colored like the rest of the ship, it was a neutral grey with the faint sheen of metal. Boring. The desk, on the other hand, was a deep, rich wood, covered with a finish that Bones had applied himself. It was a beautiful work of carpentry, magnificently styled by one of his distant grandfathers somewhere down in Georgia more than five hundred years ago. Papers littered the desk, most of them being halfway finished. They were for the psychoanalysis meetings, so they couldn't possibly be finished yet, so Bones gave himself a small break on that one. Usually, every paper had its proper place and was quite happy to stay where it was, thank you very much. Bones was no neat freak, but he kept a certain amount of order in his office. There was nothing on the desk to indicate anything about himself save for one picture, turned away from him. The frame was relatively simple, and its dimensions were small, smaller than the tricorder that Bones usually carried around. But this tiny picture was Bones' most coveted possession. It was of a small girl, looking towards the camera, or someone holding the camera, with brilliantly mischievous eyes, a smirk, and short brown curls. She was holding something behind her back, and wouldn't let anyone see it, because it was her little secret. Even though it was facing the other way, Bone could recall almost every small detail about this little girl, even the pattern of her dress, her hairclip, and her favorite food. He lay there, consumed with his thoughts and regrets.

Bones was no longer sure how long it had been since he had called Nurse Chapel; his vision was growing more and more bleary as his eyelids drooped. His eyes slowly fluttered closed.

((()))

Nurse Chapel was not a suspicious soul, but when Doctor McCoy hadn't surfaced for over five hours, she suspected that something was not quite right. It was possible that Scotty had arrived before she had gotten there, but she was fairly quick, and Engineering was a bit farther off than her quarters. Engineer Scott was also not known for his supreme punctuality.

So she suspected that Engineer Scott hadn't arrived at all.

But she followed her orders; she had accidents to clean up in main Sickbay. Repair teams were always creating slight incidents, and she had a duty to take care of them all. Besides, the Doctor would have called her in no small rage if Scotty hadn't shown up.

Another half an hour later, the Captain showed up asking for Bones. Since it was in her orders, Chapel opened the door for him. He went straight into McCoy's office.

The door closed behind him.

There was no noise, no yelling, no nothing.

Her suspicions were definitely raised. Several different ones, in fact.

"Computer, locate Chief Engineer Scott."

((()))

"Hey, Bones, wake up."

"Jim…" He sat up slowly, still pretty groggy.

"Goddamit! That goddamn Scotsman! He didn't show up for his goddamn appointment!" Bones leapt up from the couch, grabbed his tools, and stormed out of Sickbay, leaving Kirk standing there a bit surprised and with his mouth hanging open.

Kirk scratched his head. "Well… I guess he's fine, then."

((()))

Chapel saw Bones stomp out of his office looking as if he had been sleeping. He didn't look her way.

"He's still in Engineering, Doctor."

"Thanks, Nurse Chapel."

He continued on his way. Just as the Sickbay doors hissed shut, Jim ambled on out of the office looking slightly confused.

"He's headed towards Engineering, Captain."

"Good work, nurse. As you were." Jim strolled out of Sickbay looking marginally more assured, with his hands behind his back in a knot.

Chapel felt like a secretary. She got out some medical tools and a bacteria culture to take her mind off things. She still had quite a bit of time on her shift.

((()))

Fiery and resilient, Bones stormed through the halls yet again, scaring all the young recruits and ensigns out of his way as well as more senior officers. The younger were simply more honest about showing it, throwing themselves with abandon from his straight path. He cut through the ensigns like cheese.

He had remembered to bring his hypo and tricorder in his haze of fury. His right hand gripped the hypo with a vengeance, tightening around the blasted piece of machinery until his knuckles were white. The tricorder whipped behind him, Bones' long strides carrying him farther and faster than usual, and almost hit an ensign in the side had he not the quick reflexes and survival skills expected of every Starfleet officer.

It was quite clear to everyone that _someone_ had skipped his appointment.

Everyone assumed it was Kirk, until he walked up asking for the direction Bones had taken.

((()))

Bones ground his teeth as he neared his destination – the turbolift. The fact that he was being forced to descend to this behavior was insufferable! The fact that he was forced to use this contraption was simply abominable! Dammit, Scotty was supposed to just show up, like as was expected of him!

He stopped before those leering doors, blank with anticipation for his outcry of anxiety or some other general show of weakness. Well, dammit, he would show them.

Bones pressed the button. The doors whooshed open. He stepped inside. He turned, and gave out his intent with a guttural growl that sounded a bit like: "Get me to Engineering, goddammit!" The doors shut, framing his shoulders, then his face, then a single glaring eye, until all Jim could see from down the hall was a strip of his blue uniform.

"Dammit, I lost him again." Jim bit his thumbnail as he ground to a halt. "I guess I'll just…"

"Has there been an incident, Captain?"

Jim turned in surprise. "Spock!"

Spock was standing there as if he had always been there, his hands folded together behind his back in perfect Starfleet ease, but Jim knew that this hallway had been completely empty before because Bones had cleared it out expertly with one stride. And Spock was supposed to be on the Bridge right now.

"Spock, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same, Captain."

"I gave you the bridge not twenty minutes ago."

"And I have bestowed that bridge unto a willing Mr. Sulu, Captain."

Spock seemed a bit different from usual; usually his eyes were defiantly raised to Jim's, but now they were somehow hesitant.

"Captain, is there a problem?"

"Why would there be suspicion of a problem, Mr. Spock?" Jim cocked his head; there wasn't really any big emergency going on according to any of the data Jim had been reading lately. The only problems Jim had now were personal.

"Increasingly of late, you have not been attending the Bridge and have made a number of trips to Sickbay and funerals, as well as meetings with the families of the lost. Just now, you said yourself that you have 'lost him.' Both of these general facts indicate not only the fact that your performance as an officer has diminished as of late, but also that you require more than any other officer in the fleet a considerable rest and relaxation. Is there a particular problem to which you are attempting to solve at the moment, Captain, and can I be of assistance?" Spock's eyes finally met his determinedly.

Jim blinked. Hm.

"Well… uh… I was just…" His pathetic attempt to curtail Spock's interest was stabbed through, then flopped over and died because of those piercing eyes. Jim sighed and his shoulders curved inward. He smiled slightly as he reached up to his hair with a casual hand as his back touched metal as he leaned against the wall. "I was just trying to catch up with Bones, but he keeps on disappearing. He was supposed to start his psychoanalysis today and I haven't been able to get a word in since this morning; right now, he's hurrying to Engineering, and I have no clue why. I just want to make sure he's okay, because he's just recovered and I don't want him to be overly stressed after such an awful mission. He's been running around like a fiend, which I suppose is good, but I haven't been a good captain if I let one of my senior officers burn himself out."

"In conclusion, Doctor McCoy is not sufficiently rested by your standards and is in need of more rest before you can declare him fit for duty?"

"Well, I just want to be sure he's fine. I think he can take care of himself, for the most part."

Spock inclined his head. "Your concerns are noted. It is reasonable to be doubtful of Doctor McCoy's wellbeing after such a mission."

Jim crossed his arms and more firmly settled into the wall. "Thanks, nice to know I'm not completely insane." He snorted lightly through his nose, a smile flickering and his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment.

"Jim, I have a similar matter to speak with you about." This made Jim stand up straight again; one, Spock had used his first name, and two, Spock's tone was completely serious. Not that he was ever specifically _not_ serious; in this case, it was just a bit more steeled, somehow, and Jim just knew it. Something was up.

"Shoot, Spock."

"Captain, I do not see the merit in firing on you at this point in time."

Jim rolled his eyes with a smile. "Proceed with your inquiry, Commander."

"I picked this up from Doctor McCoy's log," here Spock held up a PADD and a stylus. "We have a crewmember aboard who's showing signs of stress and fatigue, reaction time down nine to twelve percent, associated rating norm minus three."

"That's an amazingly low rating, Mr. Spock."

"He's becoming irritable and quarrelsome, yet he refuses to take rest and rehabilitation. And he has that right, but we – "

"A crewman's right ends when the safety of the ship begins, Mr. Spock. Now that man will go ashore on my orders. What's his name?"

Spock looked back down at his PADD.

"James Kirk." He looked back up with a mischievous look in his eyes and a raised eyebrow.

Jim swayed a bit as he almost lost his footing.

With a slight smile, so that Jim could barely register it, and in fact thought he was imagining it, "Enjoy yourself, Captain."

Jim's hands gravitated towards his hips as he playfully raised his eyebrow in response. "I believe that could be construed as mutiny, Mr. Spock."

"As you ordered, Captain." That irrepressible glint was back in Spock's eyes.

Jim gave it up and resigned himself to the remainder of shore leave. Only another week and a half, if repairs were in order, which they rarely were. "I then leave Bones to you. Hopefully he won't be as difficult to ensnare as I was." He began walking away, and raised his hand in defeat and acknowledgment. "You have the bridge, then, Mr. Spock."

As Jim was walking away, he didn't see the evident relief and simultaneous confusion on Spock's face, nor his hand trembling, and slowly encompassing his forehead, placing the tips on specific points, one on his chin, two on his cheek, and two on his forehead. His head bowed down as he boxed in his new feelings.

Just then, the light blinked and the turbolift opened. Bones dragged Scotty out of it by the collar muttering about something infernal, no doubt. He looked up and saw Spock, and stopped.

"What the hell is going on, Spock?" At this, Spock didn't even glace upwards; he was rooted to the spot, still shaking. Bones forgot about keeping a tight leash on Scotty instantly in the face of this new travesty.

"Dammit, man, answer me!" Bones grabbed his arms and shook him, but still Spock did not respond.

"…_Goddammit_. Green-blooded hobgoblin."

((()))

Finally, Jim reached his quarters. As he typed in the code, he let out a breath. He felt relieved of his troubles for the moment. Spock was so reassuring in that regard; when he took command in Jim's stead during these times, Jim trusted him enough to relax, which was saying something.

Because Jim _had_ been tired, he _had_ been broken down, and he _did_ need rest. He hadn't allowed himself the luxury until Spock had forced him into a corner. Jim saw the truth, and he would accept it for now.

The door whooshed open. Jim stumbled into his room and flopped down onto his bed.

It was only after it was too late when he realized someone else was in the room.

((()))

Somehow, Bones made it back to Sickbay with both Scotty and Spock in tow. He threw them both onto cots before reassuring Nurse Chapel. She had been pretty damn startled, and Bones couldn't blame her, really. Then he headed back to treat them.

He started with Spock after snapping at Scotty. "You didn't show for your appointment, dammit, so don't whine. Get in my office, sit down, and be content to wait." He complied, so Bones turned his attentions back to that pointy-eared bastard.

Scanning only revealed that Spock was undergoing severe mental stress, so much that a human's brain would have forced the body into a grand-mal seizure. As it was, the only outward symptoms were a slight shaking and a withdrawn manner. Bones chalked it up to green-blooded hobgoblin shenanigans.

The shenanigans of which Bones had only just become familiar with. That psychic shit.

He wasn't quite sure how to deal with the psychic part, but Bones knew how to reduce the stress of seizures, so he shot Spock up with a hypo. That ceased the trembling and Spock calmed down enough to be able to recognize where he was and respond to questions.

"Spock, what the hell is wrong with you now?"

"Doctor…" He took a big breath. "It seems as if the episodes are becoming more and more effective at breaking down my mental shields as they become more and more frequent."

So it _was_ that psychic shit.

"Why were you completely unresponsive to stimuli, Spock?"

"The feeling, Doctor, overtook my mind and rendered me unable."

"How can I help with that?"

"I do not believe there is a medical solution, Doctor. In fact, since we know nothing of the source or of any psychic method of stopping these transferences, I am hesitant to say that they can ever be stopped." Well, Bones was pretty sure of the source by now, but since he didn't know how to stop it from happening even with that particular information, he didn't think it needed to be revealed at this point in time. Besides, Bones had another feasible theory.

"Maybe, Spock, you're just like everyone else on this ship right now and just need a good rest to rebuild your faculties."

"Perhaps, Doctor. I shall continue to meditate after I adhere to the Captain's orders."

"What orders, Spock?"

His eyes looked up sharply, so sharply in fact that Bones felt like he had been cut. He actually scanned himself to be sure.

"The Captain wishes for me to inform you, Doctor, that you are required to attend shore leave for two weeks before returning to complete, active duty."

"Spock – "

"Any work done by you during this time period will be proclaimed null and failure to comply with the orders of the Captain will result in at best a court martial."

Bones rolled his eyes. "Spock, I can still work. I'm not an invalid."

"Logically speaking, you cannot still work as your orders are quite clearly to the contrary."

Bones rolled his eyes again before sighing. "At least allow me to do my psychoanalysis sessions with the crewmembers."

Spock contemplated this. But only for a nanosecond.

"Negative, Doctor." Then he relented slightly. "For the moment, no work is to be done. However, when the span of this week is up, you may resume your sessions. But only the sessions, and they must be conducted off of the ship."

"Since I just rounded up Scotty after five hours, and it would take a considerable amount of work to recapture him, am I allowed to finish my session with him?"

"…Negative, Doctor."

"Then Scotty and I will just have a casual little drink or two. You have permission to leave, Commander."

"Thank you, Doctor." Spock straightened the hem of his uniform shirt and then promptly took his leave of Sickbay.

Bones sighed, looking after Spock in evident frustration. "Dammit, man, how many problems can one man have?" He crossed his arms. "Especially when psychic shit comes up…"

Nurse Chapel primly walked up to him. "Doctor, my hours have just ended. Here's my official report for today, and need I remind you that Chief Engineer Scott is still waiting for you in your office?"

Surprised out of his grim mood, Bones took the offered PADD and muttered a 'thank you' before she took off. He checked the time. It was late; almost 2300 hours.

He contemplated the possibility of letting Scotty go for the moment, but then remembered the hell he had had to go through to procure him.

He stalked into his office, glancing over the PADD with one hand tucked behind his back, slightly hunched over, saying, "Well, then, Scotty, I suppose now is as good a time as any to start this little session, so – " He looked up.

Scotty was sleeping. In a chair in front of his desk, where Scotty had presumably been waiting for a little over ten minutes, it seemed to Bones that he had just passed out from fatigue after a quick scan.

After contemplating his next outcropping of options, Bones decided to move Scotty to the couch, only a meter away. After a quick transition, Scotty was snugly kipping on the pouf of a couch with a pillow and a blanket for his security.

He observed Scotty's sleep, and found no disturbances. There was obviously some significant strain on the man; his eyes were bloodshot when Bones had seen them last, there were considerable dark shadows creeping under his eyes, and he had hardly put up a fight when Bones had found him deep in the heart of Engineering. Scotty had always been a man of vivacity, and it was strange for him to be so pathetically limp in terms of personality. Sleep, Bones decided, would do him good.

In one last action, Bones shot Scotty with a light sleep-inducing medication that would keep him under for the next day. He almost maniacally laughed to himself after thinking up such a genius scheme. Scotty wouldn't be working tomorrow, and Bones wouldn't have to stress about him overworking himself.

Bones fell into his chair, finally, after setting down his trusty hypo and tricorder in both their respective places. He fell asleep like a candle being blown out.

((()))

Jim couldn't move; the mystery stranger had a phaser to his temple, and he didn't dare turn his head to see who it was.

"Get up. Walk three paces and put your hands on your head." When the stranger spoke, the voice was garbled and barely recognizable as Standard. Jim guessed that they were speaking through a less advanced variation of a voice scrambler. He couldn't narrow his options by gender identity, then. Who could this be? If he could figure it out without inciting its anger, that would be the _logical_ thing to do.

On the other hand, Jim wasn't the most _logical_ person. As he was supposed to be moving forward, he leaped backwards and took his enemy's phaser hand in a rough twist, knocking it onto the floor.

They struggled before Jim was hit over the head with a blunt object and instantly fell to the ground. The stranger dragged him across the ground, propping him up against the bed.

"Well, Jimmy boy, you never did learn your lesson." The perpetrator cackled and began tying up Jim's limbs.

"This was even easier than I thought because of your impulsiveness." He finished his work, stood, and looked over his work so far.

"This prank won't be sumthin' you can laugh at later, Jimmy boy." His eyes took on a sharp, maniacal glint. "I guarantee it."

((()))

End of Part 6

Author's Note: Who is this suspicious character, and what's his evil plan?!?!? If you're an Original Series nut, you just might already know him. In fact, If you watch the Original Series at all, you should be able to spot some recurring events or lines within this story, but supremely in this particular chappie. I wonder how many people can find all of the varied literary references I've made in total so far… It would be tough, because there's so many. Hint: most are in one-liners. Whoever comes up with the most that are legitimate will receive a special commendation in the author's note in the next chapter posted! Or the ones that just make me laugh. Or the person who gets the identity of the suspicious person first. Or… Just anything you can think of, really. Hope you'll stick around; this shit just got real. (Whoever can name two references for that, I'll love forever.)


	7. Of Vague and Visceral

Author's Note: Yeah, this chapter was a bit late. There is a mountain of reasons, but I don't think you're that interested. It won't happen again; this week I'm writing a bit more prolifically to make up for my error. So just be happy to read this one, I suppose. Thanks for sticking with me and my ridiculousness.

I can't promise to be that nice to Uhura, even if I think she's awesome. I still don't quite understand the bond between her and Spock, so this is part of my take on it, I suppose.

Oh, and Paramount owns all of this stuff. I'm just messing with it. If you were thinking otherwise, thank you, but you may need to get a check-up. (Yeesh, aren't I so cordial today.) Go read!

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 7: Vague and Visceral

((()))

Lieutenant Uhura had been on the bridge for a half an hour before the morning shift began, checking some interesting frequencies from an odd channel. The sensors on the starship were the best, and pinpointed even the smallest subspace bands that curled around the ship that technology could offer. So she was usually on the bridge early and stayed late, listening to all of the sounds that other devices could only wish to attain, with more channels than any other and quality beyond quality. Flipping between blank channels, Uhura had found this extremely odd sound.

It wasn't quiet, nor was it isolated into one pattern; rather, it was a culmination of many loud noises smashed together. If she had to put a name to the type, she would classify the sounds as mechanical. Uhura dug her transmitter deeper into her ear and flicked a few switches to split the multitude of sounds into groups by the frequencies. After listening separately to the groups, she further separated the units into smaller pieces based on pitch. Going through the particulars, Uhura went through each and every individual sound she had recorded. After considerable thought, she decided to use the standard delta Starfleet algorithm for distinguishing sound patterns.

Flick. There was an awful screeching before she quickly flipped off the delta pattern. She tried gamma instead. There was no difference. Uhura tried beta, but it did no good. Finally, she tried alpha.

Sound swelled through the tiny speaker jammed in Uhura's ear, quietly at first. As she turned the volume up ever so slightly, her station beeped to signal the start of the shift. The doors whooshed open to admit the disorganized pack of stumbling, shouting morning crew, who settled into their places with an incredibly high decibel level.

Uhura quietly groaned and switched off her transmissions. She would try later, maybe during the night shift, when everyone was asleep. There was too much noise now to make a fair analysis of such delicate work.

She turned to face the middle of the bridge, giving her full attentions to the high ranks as a sign of respect before the day officially began.

The captain had already left for Earth for shore leave, Uhura knew, so it wasn't odd to see Spock sitting in the command chair. What was odd was Spock's expression, his behavior, his entire manner. Something was wrong, even though she couldn't exactly pin down whatever it was. His eyes were on the ground, flicking from place to place ever so often. The crease between his eyebrows was scrunched up, and his mouth was unsure of its position, twisting from one shape to another. Another crewmember would probably see Spock looking down and move on, but Uhura saw more.

So much more.

Spock was anxious, possible irritated, definitely in some sort of pain, insecure, and at least other five other things that Uhura had yet to discover. He had made his addresses to the crew quite evenly and logically, but his mind had been distracted and his body language told of his need to be somewhere else.

She wanted to run to him and ask him what was the matter with a few heartfelt queries and kisses, but Uhura was on duty. She did not dare break her protocol in order to do something personal. She had a job to do.

Spock was making his rounds with an odd, jerky gait when he stiffly asked for the frequency reports. Uhura responded succinctly and accurately immediately before he abruptly turned and walked off the bridge, muttering something about Mr. Sulu taking it over from here, one of the Captain's usual quips.

Uhura was concerned, but she was not allowed to leave the bridge without the consent of a higher officer, and there was a lot of work to do. So she stayed put, turning back to her channels and frequencies with a frown.

She would grill him later, and make sure he was fine. It's not like he's going anywhere, she reasoned. And he would be mad if I left my station just to console him.

((()))

Spock ground his teeth as soon as the turbolift doors swished together, and slammed his forehead against the wall. The episodes were even more frequent than usual, with fear, adrenaline, hatred, confusion, guilt, and worry all shooting through him simultaneously, more intensely than he had ever felt, before suddenly disappearing into nothing, leaving him alone and shaking inside his own skull. He couldn't understand it at all.

Stumbling down the hall, Spock collapsed right outside of Sickbay, splayed out on the floor with his muscles tightening with adrenaline just as another episode grabbed him.

This time, the emotions were so strong that not only could Spock feel the emotions so acutely he didn't know if they were his or not, he actually began experiencing whatever the source was experiencing. He saw, heard, felt, and tasted someone, someplace, something that he logically deduced were not his present surroundings. He saw a tall humanoid standing triumphantly yet menacingly over him, with bright blond hair and an evil grin. He heard the man speak awful things about their past and how he was going to repay 'Jimmy boy' for everything that had happened. He felt Jimmy being hit, over and over again, tasted the blood in Jimmy's mouth as the perpetrator's fists crushed Jimmy's cheeks into the sharp points of his teeth.

Spock felt sick when the blond man started hammering fists into his stomach, or what was actually Jimmy's stomach and his kidney. Jimmy's head bobbed down in fatigue when left alone and whipped from side to side when hit, and so Spock couldn't get a handle on the location with his dizziness and lack of control.

Blood poured from Jimmy's mouth when he was hit again, and Spock stared almost unbelievingly at the red color coming from what seemed like his own mouth. This seemed surreal, as if Spock was now a human. As he flopped back onto the ground, Spock caught a moment of his face in a mirror – just one glimpse. Through that one glimpse, he knew.

Spock figured it out.

He sunk into unconsciousness.

((()))

As Sulu checked the status of the ship for the fourteenth time, the entire bridge crew was a bit suspicious. Nothing was going on, and the work that had seemed like so much only an hour before had dwindled down into a few routine scans.

Sulu stood, stretched, and walked the perimeter for the fifteenth time when he stopped before Uhura's station.

"Yes, Lieutenant Sulu." She ran through her next report in her head in a flash, though it was relatively uninteresting and was almost identical to the last fourteen.

"Lieutenant Uhura, if you have other matters to attend to… I think you should go attend to them now."

With a pointed air and half a grin, Sulu was making his point quite clearly.

"Yes, sir." Uhura said with relish, pulling out her portable transmitter from her ear and standing to go to the turbolift.

It looked like more people understood Spock then she had thought.

((()))

Bones woke up in his armchair, disoriented and slightly groggy. He glanced around before settling back down. Scotty was still the living dead on the couch, so Bones didn't need to worry about him, and he was technically off-duty, so he wasn't expected to report for the morning shift or even report his tardiness. For the moment, Bones could just sleep in a bit. His sunk down into his chest as he relaxed, content.

Bee-bee-beep.

"…Dammit."

Groaning and moaning, Bones dragged himself from his comfortable chair across the room to his desk where his communicator was beeping.

He flipped the damn thing open.

"…" He couldn't hear anything; it sounded like radio silence. There were a few crackles and a bit of static, but nothing distinct.

"This is Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy. Please respond." He waited.

There was no answer. He threw the damn thing onto his desk. "Goddamn contraption's gotta be broken, goddamn it." He threw a sideways glance at Scotty. "Maybe he could take a look at it when he wakes up." Bones did have a sort of monopoly over Scotty at the moment; he could probably get the entire Sickbay checked out while Scotty was here.

Bones knew that Scotty was out for the day, having scanned him the night before. The man was suffering from the most severe case of fatigue Bones had ever seen in a human. Well, except perhaps in himself. He would be out for a day, maybe two, and then be ready to work again. All he needed was some well-deserved rest.

After contemplating Scotty's condition, Bones fell back into his armchair, ready to sleep again. But it was not to be.

((()))

Nurse Chapel rushed to Sickbay, late to her shift and knowing she would get punished by Bones somehow for tardiness, maybe with an exceedingly boring experiment with bacteria or special time with the dermal regenerators.

After taking so long to realize her clock was thirty minutes slow, Chapel had raced through her doors and down the hall after haphazardly throwing on some clothes and running through the sonic shower. She did have to take some time to carefully drag a comb through her hair and style it too, but other than that, she was hectically pushing through every moment with her haste.

It wasn't like anything spectacular was going on that she would be desperately needed by McCoy or anything; after all, the ship was in the middle of a repair session. However, she knew that McCoy was a stickler about certain protocol, always paranoid about freak emergencies and injuries, needing every Sickbay crewmember on time and at their stations. If they were like Chapel, always on time and always impeccably dutiful, then he was absolutely dandy. If they weren't, McCoy was ruthless.

Chapel drew out a PADD and began scribbling on it as she got closer and closer to Sickbay, walking faster and faster. She almost tripped on Spock.

((()))

Uhura stalked down the hall up to Spock's quarters, forcing repair teams to shuffle off to the side with her incredibly intentioned walk. As she neared his cabin, she hesitated for a moment before pressing the button.

"…Spock…?" Silence. She couldn't hear any hint of movement through the door, even with her impeccable hearing.

She rang again.

There was no answer.

"I'm coming in."

The door opened as Uhura plugged in the override algorithm Spock had given her. Stepping inside the dark, hot room, Uhura glanced around looking for any signs of movement.

There were none.

"Computer, lights 50%." The lights flickered on, and Uhura could see the emptiness of the room before her.

And the chaos.

((()))

"Goddammit, Spock, wake the fuck up!"

His head turned slightly to the side, responding to the Doctor's voice. How long had he been blacked out on the floor? Would there be time?

"Doctor…" Spock breathed out. "Jim… is…"

"Whatever it is, it can wait, Spock. Just calm down and focus on regaining your equilibrium."

"_No_!"

This outburst stopped McCoy in his tracks.

"…What is it? What's happened to Jim?"

"…Being… beaten, could be… killed…" Spock focused on a small point in his brain, blocking all other feelings except for his determination. Suddenly, the wave of overwhelming emotions clicked off.

Abruptly, Spock sat up. "Jim has been knocked unconscious. That is the reason why I am able to function now, Doctor. That means the situation has summarily worsened. We must find Jim and save him from the perpetrator immediately."

"What the hell, Spock – "

"Doctor, this is not only time, but Jim's life we are wasting."

Bones sighed and grabbed some choice tools. "Let's head off then, Lieutenant Commander."

((()))

Spock's quarters were in utter disarray. There were papers flung every which way, looking as if they were ripped out of bound books. Spock had a small collection in here, if Uhura could recall correctly. She bent over and saw the small insignia of Vulcan dictation on the ripped corner. This was some of Spock's most prized Vulcan poetry.

Furniture was upended and tossed about. Some of the legs of spindly chairs had snapped or been snapped, one chair slightly wobbling. The bed seemed as though it had been ripped apart. Candles were broken into pieces, and there were some remains of the candles on the walls, along with some suspicious liquids. The Vulcan art that had been on the walls was punched full of holes, and the interesting carving from ancient Earth from a famous Buddhist temple was smashed across the floor into small rivulets of porcelain.

Uhura could not move for some time from the shock after realizing the extent of the damage. She held the slip of Vulcan poetry in her hand, staring, gaping, at the mess before her.

Something was definitely wrong with Spock.

Uhura _had_ always prided herself on stating the obvious.

The gut feeling she had right now was horrifying. Maybe Spock is just venting about his mother again, she thought desperately. Maybe he's just going through a phase. He won't be in the bathroom, dead. No, no way. He'll be fine. Just fine.

She lost the feeling in her legs, toppling towards the wall, thrusting her arms out to support her body. Shifting to the left, she reached the bathroom. The doors opened slowly with a creak.

With a cry, Uhura rushed to the growing bloodstain weeping from beneath the sonic shower.

((()))

Bones shook his head in disgust. Again, he was being dragged along on some mission to save Jim's life that he knew nothing about on some blasted piece of machinery that he didn't understand. He was passively moving through life. The only time people bothered to explain themselves was after everything was over, or if he couldn't treat them without the information. Sometimes that didn't stop them from maintaining their silence.

Like Spock, at the moment. The only thing that would come out of his mouth now was that Jim was in dire peril. Nothing else. He didn't explain how he knew this, where they were headed, or what kind of peril.

It got on the old country doctor's nerves.

"Dammit, Spock, don't just _clam_ _up_ like a goddamn… _clam_! How the _hell_ is Jim in mortal peril?"

There was no response. Spock looked as if he was attempting to become a marble statue. His facial features had barely twitched for the entire journey down to the transporter room. At least, Bones thought they were going to the transporter room; by his understanding, Jim had already beamed planetside last night. His gait was awkward to watch, not to mention follow. If Bones could trust his own judgment on Vulcan physiology, which he had only taken three courses on in undergraduate school, then he would say that Spock was pallid, sickly-looking, and pretty much incased in a physical hell.

But he wasn't sure if he could trust himself on that one.

After some more awkward silence between them, Spock determinedly almost limping ahead of him, Bones pulled out his tricorder and scanned him again, checking all sorts of different channels and faculties in his confusion. His eyebrows shot up at the readings he found.

"Spock…!"

((()))

After an absolutely spiffy good night's sleep, enhanced with a special medicine administered by the good Doctor, Scotty's eyes blinked open in Sickbay's main office. He was covered by a warm blanket that looked as if it was carefully tied around him so he wouldn't be able to struggle much after waking and possibly escape. After yawning and stretching his limbs as much as was possible for him in that particular position, Scotty rolled off of the couch to loosen his arms.

The noise alerted the nurse from the other room, who came in just as he had freed himself. It hadn't been too difficult; it was the standard straightjacket pattern with the adaptation to include the inhibition of leg usage, an exercise that had been common for Starfleet cadets in routine examinations. What was difficult was tying the damn things; getting out was easy if you just knew how.

Standing up as the lovely lass showed in the door, Scotty was polite and made sure she was comfortable.

"Mornin,' lass. 'Ope all's well in Sickbay, then?"

She looked a mite confused, but her expression cleared after seeing the blanket and couch all mussed from his night there.

"Were you here last night with Doctor McCoy, then, Lieutenant Commander?" Her tone was calm and low, though her eyes seemed a bit curious. He realized that this nurse was not a lass, but quite the mature lady.

"Aye, ma'am, Ah believe so. Though, Ah cannae remember most of it." He smiled good-naturedly, and she smiled back, a bit embarrassed.

"Uh, yes, I see. Perfectly. Then I suppose you are free to return to your post, Lieutenant Commander."

"Thankee kindly, ma'am." Scotty high-tailed it out of Sickbay to return to his sanctuary: Engineering. It seemed like he had been sleeping forever, unable to return to his refuge of piles of junk and sheets of metal.

Just as he was passing out of Sickbay's doors, he caught sight of someone he hadn't seen since the Hell Incident, as some young ensigns were muttering in the corners of the Mess Hall.

Scotty smiled and waved. "Mornin,' lad!"

Slistas stopped and turned around after glancing back. Clearly, Scotty was speaking to him, as there was no one else in the hallway.

"Lieutenant Commander." Oddly enough, it sounded more like a question than a response. Perhaps Slistas was a mite confused to why he was being addressed.

Scotty rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Ah wundered if yeh could accompany me t' Engineerin,' if yeh got the tayme."

Slistas paused momentarily before responding, "Certainly."

Scotty's face lighted up with glee.

((()))

McCoy's face darkened with anger and fear. "You're being tormented by Jim's emotions again, then, aren't you, Spock?"

At this, Spock head whipped around in surprise. "You… had already discovered that the psychic bond was…?"

Bones rolled his eyes. He shot a muscle relaxant straight into Spock's bloodstream. "Y'know, for bein' so goddamn smart, you really miss the obvious sometimes."

After a moment, Spock's shoulders relaxed and he began walking normally, hands behind his back in Starfleet standard position.

"Well, then, Doctor, I have just experienced an intense onslaught of the Captain's emotional state and have glimpsed his situation through the short eclipse of our connection."

"Well, what did you pick up on?"

"The emotions were so intense that I literally experienced his physical surroundings, as well."

"So…"

"I saw the perpetrator, I felt him beating the Captain, and I heard his reasonings."

"Then we can catch him."

"Indeed, Doctor, if we are just fast enough. I do not know where he has taken the Captain, nor do I know how." Spock blinked. "However…"

"You just thought of an ingenious way to find him?"

"…Indeed, Doctor."

((()))

Uhura took another small step towards the bloody shower. The pane was muddied with splotches of blood dripping down the rough glass, but she could just make out the dark form of a body slouched against the wall, sprawled on the floor.

The pool of blood on the ground lapped at her boots as it continued to grow. Vaguely, Uhura noted that the blood was red, not green like Spock's.

Sloshing through it all, Uhura made it to the edge of the shower. Holding her hand to the glass to steady herself, she gasped as she saw a red handprint mirroring her own. Carefully, her hand shaking in fear, Uhura opened the door to the shower.

And screamed.

She fell back, her legs unable to carry her weight, scrambling, her hands slipping on the blood and her boots fruitlessly working to push her away. Finally, when she had reached the other side of the room, she grabbed the door, pulled herself to her feet, and ran.

((()))

Scotty had just gotten to the finer points of his explanation of his new little baby, when Slistas went into a long and thorough description of how his heart worked exactly, through all of the intricate pistons and contractions. Scotty was listening so intently he almost missed it.

When Slistas was using a stylo to sketch some of the finer mechanisms, Scotty had been bending over to see his diagrams. It had been no surprise for Scotty to see Slistas decked out in the standard Starfleet black slacks, and so he hadn't noticed before, but as he was directly before him, there was no way he could miss it.

The sleeve Slistas was dragging on the side of the screen left scrapes of blood on the polished metal.

When Scotty looked a bit closer, almost the entire black uniform was damp, slightly hinting reflections of the dim lights surrounding them.

"Is that a satisfactory explanation, Lieutenant Commander?"

Scotty responded instantly. "Perhaps Ah could jus' get anuther clarification on the rounded seams and how they work t'gether with any other organs?"

Slistas turned back to the screen. "Of course. Please note the shaping of the corresponding fill for the seam, just here…"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Scotty maneuvered to the side of his own station, only a few feet away, and input a very secure code into the subspace channels.

((()))

Nurse Chapel breathed in and out very slowly.

"Lieutenant, please repeat."

"Nurse, I found a body in Spock's bathroom! There's blood everywhere, I'm covered in it, I'm not even sure who it is, the face is completely smashed apart! I wasn't, I couldn't even think, I don't know who did it, could it have been Spock, why would he do something like this, oh, it was awful, I can't believe that someone would do something, anything, like this, it can't be him, it can't be Spock who did it, I – "

"Uhura." Chapel's voice was firm and serious.

Uhura seemingly sucked in a breath, and stopped talking over the communicator.

"Now, I want you to calm down." Chapel expertly pressed a complicated pattern of buttons. "I already sent a medical team along with a Security team, so don't worry, people are coming to get you and to maybe help whoever the victim is."

"But – "

"What is it?" Chapel wondered if she would be able to stop her from another outburst if she started again.

"There's no chance he's alive." The voice that filtered through the communicator was now steady, though still a bit high.

At least she still seemed calm. That's one good thing about this situation so far. "Why do you say that?"

"His brain is splattered on the wall of the shower." Uhura's voice was completely placid and commonplace now, so much so that Chapel's eyes widened with the prickling feeling of something being completely and utterly _wrong_, not just with the situation, but with Uhura. The girl must be in a powerful state of shock, at the very least. The mental damage this must have caused seems severe.

"Nurse?"

"Uh, yes, then the medical team will assist you back to Sickbay. Please stay where you are, Lieutenant Uhura."

"Yes, ma'am," Uhura chirped from the other line. Then the communicator clicked off.

Slowly, Chapel shut her own communicator. Not only a murder, but a severe trauma patient, and there were still all the patients the Doctor hadn't seen from the last incident.

In any case, Sickbay was going to be exploding with activity for quite a while.

Rushing into Doctor McCoy's office, Chapel slammed her hand on the report button, patching her directly to the bridge.

((()))

After a wonderful, peaceful morning spent with his beautiful girlfriend, Chief Security Officer Giotto had been leisurely sipping his cup of coffee at his comfortable station when every single alarm for emergencies sounded off. Everything had seemed to go to hell in the moment where he took a seat.

Three security teams had been called by the Chief of Engineering and two by the Chief Medical Officer, along with the news of a murder in the quarters of the Commander, a missing Captain, and news of a traumatized Lieutenant. Not only was it Giotto's job to put together all of the teams, he also had to make sure the rest of the ship was under full alert because of the murder, find the murderer, make sure the traumatized victim was put under suitable protection, investigate the kidnapping of the Captain, and lastly cart off the wounded to Sickbay. He had to oversee everything, and be perfect in all that he did.

With a sigh, Giotto set down his coffee. "I really thought I could have just one peaceful day. I really did."

He grabbed a stash of high caliber phasers to hand out to his team leader, keeping a triple-barrel for himself. It was his favorite gun in a pinch.

And it looked like this would be a helluva pinch.

After all of the preparations had been made, Giotto made sure to stop by her station.

"Hey." He loaded his gun with a new clip of semi-reactive gel and snapped it shut, pointedly not looking directly into her eyes.

"Lieutenant." Her voice was soft yet clipped. "Off to wage another war?"

"Look, Joy – "

"No, stop while you're ahead." She stood slowly, turning away from him.

"Joy – "

She whipped back around, and Giotto stopped talking. Tears were shining in her eyes, threatening to leak out.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning over the gun, careful not to touch it. Whispering into his ear, "Try not to die."

Giotto dropped the gun on the floor as he snaked his arms around her.

"It's just a routine Security detail, maybe with a bit more manpower than usual. You don't have to worry, Joy." His voice had softened so that it could only be heard by her.

She clung tighter. "Whenever a man carries a phaser, it means that he senses danger."

Giotto didn't have anything to say to that. Well, maybe one thing.

"…I love you."

They broke apart, Giotto picked up his gun, and he headed off. Before he left, he looked back once to catch her gaze.

"Joy…"

She nodded once.

He spun around and confidently charged through the door.

((()))

"Meester Sulu, vat eez happening now with the rest of ze ship?"

"Well, I don't actually know all that much, just the same as you."

"Vat should ve do?"

"Actually I was planning on just doing what I usually do, just doing the routine scans and piloting, you know. Just the normal stuff."

"Vat eef ve should be helping? Vat eef ve could fix ewerysing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Vell, I vas sinking zat ve could use ze sensors, recalibrated off course, to find ze Kepten."

"What do you mean? He doesn't have his insignia on him, I don't think. It was taken off of him. Spock would have already checked it, wouldn't he? I mean, whoever would kidnap someone and not take his transceiver off is an idiot."

"Vell, vat eef he didn't?"

"What, are you saying _Spock_ of all people wouldn't think to check something so basic?"

"Zat ees _exactly_ vat I am sayink."

"Why? What's your theory?"

"Meester Spock vas qvite distracted zis mornink…"

"…I see your point."

Sulu turned to the Communications station, specifically the lieutenant taking Spock's position for the moment.

"Lieutenant Green, please monitor Captain Kirk's frequency as per his insignia transceiver."

"Yessir."

A few seconds passed before the screen showed the vitals of a certain James T. Kirk.

Chekhov whooped in triumph.

Then reality hit.

Chekhov started cussing in Russian.

((()))

What Jim couldn't understand was that through all of the hits that damn Irishman kept pounding on him, all he could think of was Spock. He had no dreams when he blacked out from the pain, but it was as if he was in another person's body, almost, as if he was completely removed from the pain. He dimly perceived the bastard hitting him, yelling at him, kicking him, but the more he was awake, the less he felt. At first he had almost been overwhelmed with the sheer impossibility, but slowly Jim became accustomed to the idea that an old classmate was planning on beating him to death.

Vaguely, ever so vaguely, Jim thought about his options. He could attempt to disable the blond bastard with a lot of pain as a reward, he could take the beating and pretend to pass out and then attempt escape, assuming that he didn't actually pass out, he could attempt to distract him with something and then escape, he could…

Well, none of these options sounded as if he was going to get away.

The more he tried to paint a blurry picture of his situation, the more it seemed like one of those no-win situations that he had never believed in. Then Jim's eyes narrowed.

No way in _hell_ did he believe in a no-win scenario.

Another spark of rebelliousness shot through him with a vengeance, and as the blond bastard came in again for another hit, Jim smashed his bloody forehead into the unguarded groin of his good friend.

((()))

End of Chapter 7

TBC

Author's Note:

What do you think of my new chapter? SPECULATE: What's going to happen to Jim? Who's the dead person in the bathroom? Whodunit? Why? How's Uhura? Why was there that moderately random segment of Giotto with his girl? How's Scotty in Engineering with Slistas? What's the meaning of life? All of these questions and more shall be answered in the next installment of Technical Difficulties! Just stick around, maybe write a nice little review, and you'll get everything you'd ever want.


	8. Of Crises and Connections

~happysquid08

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 8: Of Crises and Connections

((()))

Giotto had logically been amassing his forces in several key spots that were necessary for anyone trying to access important ship functions, such as the transport room, the medical center, the bridge, and several different essential hallways. He had revolving teams moving throughout the ship to find the perpetrators, teams which were constantly in contact with a higher Security detail who would inform him of any changes, finds, or shootouts. So Giotto had a foundation of officers ready to deal defensively already in tight formation as well as offensive scouting teams that were handy for quickly evolving situations and for instant action. He was both waiting and not waiting. It was a scheme of attack that Giotto had created himself, and he was quite proud of his accomplishment, even if it was pretty basic procedure.

At the moment, he was dealing with the messages he received from his inner detail of Security, who got their information from the revolving sniper units. Basically, anything that was going on got pitched to the detail, which then filtered all of that information to Giotto, who made decisions based on that information.

All of this because of a murder. Giotto needed information. He was the police, he was Scotland yard, he was Sherlock Holmes. He needed to know who was killed, who killed him, where the perp was, whether or not he was in a group, why he did it, all of it, and he needed it now. He had some of the pieces, but not nearly enough to solve anything.

He also needed to upkeep all of the present movements within the ship of his officers and what they saw.

Giotto had a lot to juggle.

Then his communicator beeped.

"Giotto here."

"This is Sulu."

"Lieutenant?"

"The victim has been confirmed." There was a pause.

Giotto's patience had been wearing thin. He needed information, and he needed it _now_. So forgive him for speaking out against a superior officer from the bridge, please don't give him a court martial.

"Look, who is it?" His voice might have been a bit harsh, considering that the poor sucker had just been murdered, but he was a bit busy.

There was no response for a moment from the other line.

Giotto shook his communicator and banged it on the desk. No, he wasn't frustrated or stressed; not at all.

"It was…"

Giotto stopped trying to mutilate his communicator. He had missed the name.

"Sorry, could you repeat?"

"The Captain! _Captain Kirk_!"

Giotto's communicator fell to the ground.

((()))

Uhura was curled up on the Sickbay cot in the fetal position, crying. Nurse Chapel was rubbing circles on her back trying to soothe her.

"There's no way you could have known to save anyone, dear." Chapel had enough experience to console a trauma patient, having more than enough incidents on the Enterprise resulting in mental breakdowns to count. So she was pretty adept at calming the emotional wrecks that showed up in tears. This was a bit different.

"I know… I know…" Uhura covered her eyes with her arm. "But… For someone to have killed the Captain! And Spock is a main suspect, too… Something has been going on for a while, but I never said anything! I should have done something, said something… I should have been able to make sure Spock was all right…"

"Nyota…" Chapel sighed. "Sometimes there is nothing to be done. Sometimes men are unpredictable. Besides, Spock isn't necessarily the killer. Maybe something else was going on. Don't just assume the worst; there's still hope, dear."

That calmed Uhura down for the most part. Before, her entire body was completely tensed like a pressed spring, taut and ready to snap, shaking with tremors. Though tears still ran down her face, Uhura had relaxed.

"But to think… I thought that there was no way it was the Captain, I thought it was just some Security guy… When I heard the news, I couldn't believe it… I just… I guess I thought he was indestructible or something, untouchable… but I suppose that he's just a man, just like everyone else…"

Chapel's hand stopped rubbing circles. Her tone became more serious, more edgy. "Why were you so convinced that the body was a Security officer's?"

Uhura looked back in surprise. She took a moment before responding. "I guess… because his shirt was bright red… But, I mean, the blood was everywhere, so…" Then she put it together. "_Oh_!"

They both realized that there was a sliver of hope.

"As long as there's hope…" Chapel smiled. "There's a chance that our Captain is still indestructible."

((()))

Slistas had logically been explicating upon the finer details upon the circulatory system of his species in comparison to the carbon-based life-form when Security burst through Engineering's formidable doors.

Scotty had looked as if it had been no surprise; in fact, it looked as if he had expected the interruption. Slistas could not draw together the logic of the situation until he added another assumption to his foundation of knowledge: he noted that his 'black slacks' were resplendent in the substance known as blood; more specifically, hemoglobin from a homo homo sapiens. He had possibly killed a man.

Though he was currently ignorant as to how this came about, Slistas made a clever hypothesis about how his clothing acquired such a stain: The Enterprise crew assumes that the unit Slistas has committed the act of splicing another of their ranks, and is now taking Slistas into custody as is custom with their laws and for their own safety.

Slistas submitted easily to the Security forces.

((()))

After much ado about Security forces attempting to secure the location, Chapel and Uhura elbowed their way into the scene of the crime. Nurse Chapel took her tricorder and some very specific DNA samples.

After three minutes, the two of them burst out of the room and made their way to the bridge.

This was important.

((()))

Finally, Bones and Spock made it to the transporter room. Bones eyed the suspiciously smug-looking contraption from the corner of the room as Spock took a seat.

"Um… Spock?" Bones scanned him again.

"Doctor, I am attempting to contact the Captain through the bond. Please do not interrupt."

He could almost see a nerve twitching in that imperial Vulcan forehead.

Bones steamed off into his corner, trying to hold back his impulse to strangle Spock. He didn't fully master the impulse, but instead strangled his tricorder, an innocent bystander.

((()))

Spock's focus narrowed on that tiny speck of difference he could still sense even when all other emotions from the other source – Jim – had gone. It was the tip of the tiny thread that connected them, mind to mind, essence to essence.

Carefully, ever so carefully, Spock navigated himself down the strand. He followed many twists and turns, all of them endlessly complicated, but all of them promised to lead him to Jim. The basic theory of the emotional connection between beings included a great deal of time and energy to connect properly, meaning that in order to fully connect, Spock would have to find exactly the right thought to bond them together, to pull them together, to allow their two explosive minds to finally fully meet. Spock would have to somehow prematurely speed up the process of knowing Jim's mind and his own in comparison. Therefore, Spock was perfectly content to take a good amount of time and energy to reach this end. He obediently went through each and every knot he could that separated them.

When the light of Jim's connection suddenly dimmed, however, Spock realized that he didn't have time for such meandering. This thought cut through everything else, freeing the string from all knots. Now all he had to do was find some way of traversing the link.

Every thought Spock had was of the two of them together, now. On the bridge, making important decisions and arguing together, in Jim's quarters playing chess, eating lunch in the Mess Hall, patching up in Sickbay together, everything Spock could think of during their time on the Enterprise flashed through his brain in an instant.

Spock's mind had been continually straining outward, and so it was as if he collided with something hurling back at him when Jim reciprocated.

_Spock?_

_Jim!_

Tied up and stowed away in some godforsaken cargo hold, Jim laughed.

Back in the transporter room, Spock's lip curled upward in a smile.

((()))

"_Captain Kirk is alive!"_

Every single person on the bridge froze instantly.

Uhura was smiling and waving the DNA evidence for her statement.

Chapel added, "It's true. The victim of the murder is not the Captain."

Everyone recognized that there was once again hope. Some stood, some dropped, some cried, some laughed, but everyone realized that everything would turn out just fine. Because they had their Captain back.

"Then…" Sulu thought aloud, "Where is he now?"

Everyone froze again.

Uhura sat in her chair, shooing away her replacement.

"Isn't it obvious?" She stuck her earpiece in. "We find him."

((()))

Slistas was securely behind the energy field of the brig now, but there were still five teams of Security posted on him. He hadn't been wounded by the officers, but he certainly felt threatened. They had the feel of bloodlust surrounding them, especially the head of the Security.

He wondered why.

Logically, Slistas connected his thin fingers to the wall behind him, sticking through the metal as if his extending digits were needles poking through cloth. Weaving his fingers through the wall, Slistas reached a conduit holding a flow of information. Wrapping his now string-thin fingers around the conduit, Slistas slipped one razor-sharp claw into the weak metal. He then received a battering of new knowledge directly from the ship's computers.

So he had killed the Captain? The animosity of the crew was not unwarranted. But wait – new information states that the victim was not the Captain, but a low-rank lieutenant on Security.

Now, the Enterprise was on task to find the Captain, who had not in fact beamed down planetside as he was supposed to do the day previous. The last that had been seen of him was in the hallway by his quarters, and there were witnesses who had seen him enter those quarters. Also, the murder had happened in the connecting room between the Captian's and the First Officer's quarters.

This was not enough information to piece together the events. Slistas knew that he would have to take in much more information if he was to solve this particular mystery. He readied himself for an onslaught of too much information, which could short-circuit him.

Giving himself to the cause, Slistas let go of his barriers and search-narrowing results. The entirety of the memory banks of the Enterprise pummeled into his brain unceasingly.

((()))

Jim had finally woken up to Spock's call, and found himself in quite a position. Thanks to Spock, he knew the basics of the situation, but had to figure out the details by himself.

He was in storage, not necessarily in the Enterprise. He could be planetside, and he could be on another ship. At the moment, he was guessing planetside on a hunch. But that particular hunch was irrelevant. Jim needed to find his coordinates, and that meant he was going to need access to the systems of wherever he was.

Which brought him back to his surroundings; he was mostly entrenched in darkness, but could just make out the familiar lights of a computer bleeping in the corner. Like a worm, Jim wriggled into complete darkness and began trying to untie the knots choking his wrists and ankles as well as knees and elbows. The cord was tough and wouldn't budge. He was gagged as well, with the same cord; someone had tried to be quite thorough.

But not thorough enough. Jim still had that familiar knife in his boot, the one that could cut through anything. It had never failed him before, anyway. Slipping it out, he easily cut his ankles and knees free. From that point, he could stand, which was good enough for the moment. He stretched his legs out and sighed before returning to his task. From his tied-up hands, he flipped the knife to the ground and picked it up with his two feet encased in standard issue boots. Using his supreme foot dexterity, Kirk snapped his gag off of his face. Now all that was left were his arms.

Kirk picked up the knife in between his teeth and stabbed it into the ground. Then he dragged his bonds against the knife's sharp edge until his wrists were free. He did the same to his elbows, though it was a bit more awkward.

Finally free of all restraints, Kirk stood, using a nearby table to hoist himself to his feet. He casually slipped the knife back into his boot, a habit so completely ingrained into him that, even in this situation, his technique and form were absolutely perfect.

"For being beaten for an entire day, I'm in pretty good shape," Jim remarked, spitting out some blood onto the floor, to the world at large. Well, to Spock mostly, who was still worried about him.

_Jim, are you certain you are unharmed? _

Every time it happened, it made Jim freeze. It wasn't a bunch of words and sentences that brought Jim to know Spock's thoughts; it was just _him, _Spock himself. A sudden onslaught of another person that bubbled up from the solid foundation within Jim, like an ocean casting up a monstrous wave up into the sky.

And Jim didn't really know how to respond to it, so he just spoke. That seemed to work pretty well.

"Yeah. For the most part." He winced as he stumbled forward, gripping his side.

_Yet I can still feel your pain._

Jim paused. He didn't like _that_ particular part of this whole weird Spock-being-in-his-mind thing. It made him feel a bit guilty and a liar. "Yeah, well, I've been through worse before, I'll get through this."

And on that note, he finally reached those damn computer terminals.

_Jim_.

"Spock?" He got the system turned on, no problem.

_I am with you._

As Jim tinkered with the buttons and the tiny knobs, a hint of a smile threatened to surface. He was pretty sure Spock got this part of the feeling.

"…Yeah, I know. I know."

((()))

Spock was still hunched over on the floor, Indian-style. Bones had been tapping his foot for such a long time that it was ridiculous. After an infinite number of random scans with his tricorder, Bones was starting to get a bit restless. He hadn't always been the most patient man.

Bones flipped out his communicator before remembering that it was broken.

Bee-bee-beep.

In his hand, the thing beeped. It was almost like magic.

After a second of shock, Bones flipped the thing open.

"Bones here."

There was no response.

Bones cursed. The damn thing was broken, he knew it. He threw it against the wall, just what it deserved.

"Damn thing, doesn't even have the _decency_ to work." Bones stewed a bit before losing interest. He turned back to scanning Spock; this was getting a bit tedious.

It was then that Spock abruptly decided it was time to wake up and startle the hell out of poor country doctor, radiating power and giving Bones a sense of foreboding.

"Doctor McCoy." Spock strode with purpose to the doors and out into the hallway. Bones followed a beat later, a bit confused.

"How's Jim?"

"He is still able to function, though perhaps not as efficiently as usual. It is unfortunate that we should be out of transport range, for you could have been instrumental in, as you say, 'patching him up.'"

"Do we… know where he is?"

"Yes, he has ascertained his coordinates through the ship's systems."

"So he's not planetside?"

"Negative; he is being held on a cargo ship named the _Sealion_ and there is a definite course plotted for the space station around Mars."

"So we're not in range for transport…"

"Evidently. We shall have to follow with the _Enterprise_."

"But the _Enterprise_ is still undergoing repairs…"

"I am fully aware. We shall inform Starfleet of the pursuit and perhaps gain some backup. Though, of course, we shall use this ship to its fullest capacity and also utilize shuttlecrafts to maneuver around the _Sealion_ and surround it."

The two of them reached the bridge after Spock had gone over his plan, which had evidently been formed between the two of them through voodoo Vulcan shit that Bones didn't really understand but allowed for the moment.

The doors opened, and the considerable bustle of activity froze at the pair of them.

Spock stepped forward.

"Thank you for all of your efforts. Captain Kirk has been located. We have the need to pursue the cargo ship _Sealion_. Though this ship is still in dire need of repair, it is necessary to push the limits of its stability in order to gain back our captain. Mr. Sulu, plot the course for the Mars space station at warp six. Ms. Uhura, contact Starfleet and inform them of our pursuit and request for aid." Spock sat down in the command chair and pressed a button. "Chief of Security Giotto, this is Commander Spock."

"Here, Commander."

"Put together a battalion of teams and prepare them for boarding the cargo ship _Sealion_ by amassing them in the transporter room. The Captain is alive and well and has been taken aboard that vessel. When the _Enterprise_ has successfully captured the _Sealion_, prepare to beam aboard the vessel and overtake the crew."

"Yessir."

Spock spun around in the chair and then made his way to his own station. "Ms. Uhura, contact the Mars space station and inform them of our mission. Request for aid in the chance that we do not successfully detain the _Sealion_ and it makes it to port."

"Yessir."

Spock glanced around and saw Scotty and Bones standing there, with no particular purpose.

"Chief Medical Officer McCoy, please proceed to the transporter room in case of any medical emergencies of the Security teams or in the return of the captain. Chief Engineer Scott, please proceed to Engineering to ascertain the wellbeing of the ship throughout this particularly dangerous escapade. After all, this mission is testing the limits of what the _Enterprise_ can take; be prepared to move from station to station."

Bones slung his tricorder over his head and onto his shoulder with a sigh.

Scotty smiled and chirped, "Aye!"

The pair of them set off to the turbolift.

"Mr. Sulu," Spock ordered, "Warp six."

"Yessir."

And they were off.

((()))

In the brig, Slistas was being hammered with a constant, unending amount of information. He was completely incomprehensive of his surroundings until he had decided that he had amassed enough information in order to come to a logical conclusion. He terminated the link between himself and the ship's computers.

When Slistas woke up, there were only three officers surrounding his cell. Evidently, the rest had taken off in pursuit of the Captain who was currently upon the _Sealion_, a craft currently out of transport range and en route to Mars space station.

Slistas could guess why. He knew who. He knew what. And, of course, he knew where. And, most importantly, he knew how.

However, it was impossible to incorporate his knowledge into the scheme by being kept in the brig.

So Slistas logically concluded that, in order to help the operation succeed, he would have to escape the brig.

After shutting down the system that contained him in an eclipsed field of energy, Slistas was forced to physically restrain the officers guarding him. In order to insure that they were unable to pursue him and also unable to alert their commanders of his escape, Slistas placed each of them, without their communicators, within his cell. He reactivated the energy field and left.

Slistas included a new parameter to his behavioral responses: for the moment, he was considered a violently dangerous fugitive and would be met with force in an attempt to restrain him; therefore, the correct method of response would be to evade confrontation. With that failing, nonlethal violence would be the proper course.

Slistas climbed into the Jefferies tubes.

((()))

Bones and Scotty were squished into the turbolift with a mass of people. What had previously been empty direct from the bridge, the turbolift was stuffed full of people trying to get to their stations for red alert.

On any other starship, there might have been no slight degree of utter panic, chaos, and mob mentality exploding shipwide, not to mention a tiny, packed turbolift. However, this was not just any starship. Though the turbolift was a bit full, everyone was, for the moment, quiet and controlled. There were no excited crewmembers stirring the ashes of fear for the situation. The Enterprise had been through too many emergencies for one red alert to send the crew into pandemonium.

As was the precedent, the turbolift halted again.

There was a bit of disappointed mutterings, but that was pretty much it. As the Chief Engineer, Scotty was at first expected to instantly fix the problem but since that was too dangerous with no tools and a turbolift full of people along with no sensor devices as to the ship's conditions or to the crux of the problem, Scotty informed the turbolift crowd of the stick, and how Engineering was automatically informed and how they would be moving again momentarily. So everyone was relaxed.

A couple was arguing over what to have for dinner, pork or steak, and baked versus mashed potatoes. Three friends from the same station were bickering over who got to report to the bridge instead of running scans. They solved their troubles with a quick tournament of rock, paper, scissors. Scotty made sure that Bones had enough space to breathe and had him turned towards the wall.

"Naew, Doctor, Ah think tha', no ma'er what, th' firs' drink ye'll buy fer me 'll have t' be some Sco'ish whiskey. Bes' there is."

Bones' lips twitched into a tiny grin, his forehead pressed against the bulkhead, face slightly turned towards Scotty. His shoulders were tensed up and his back was rigid, but Scotty thought he could fix that.

"The lad on th' bridge, the wee lad, what was his name?"

"…Chekhov?" Bones' head cocked to the side as he thought.

"Aye, Doctor. Tha's the one. Th' other dae, mah delicate sensibilities were affronted by 'is crass love of vodka. Said 'e prefers it t' any other drink."

"Well, that's cuz he's Russian, ain't it?" Now Bones was fully smiling.

"Aye, but when Ah pointed that out, th' wee lad made th' outlandish declaration tha' all drinks worth drinking originated in 'is Russia, and tha' since Ah loved alcohol at all, Ah'm actually lovin' Russian vodka, th' source of all alcohol."

Bones snorted. "He would."

"Naew Ah say t' the lad, 'Haew d'ye explain Scottish whiskey, me lad?' an 'e says tha' the Vikings brought it there, from Russia, millennia ago."

After a second, Bones laughed, his eyes creasing closed. His body was now completely relaxed as he leaned against the bulkhead. His face still retained the hint of a smile.

"And o' course, after Ah bring 'im th' historical evidence of international production o' alcohol – "

A shiver shook the turbolift and it jerked into motion. Since Bones had been completely relaxed, the sudden movement threw him off balance.

Scotty caught his shoulder and steadied the good doctor. "Naew, there, careful. Caent have mah ship's senior medical officer injurin' himself in th' turbolift."

"Yeah, thanks," Bones grunted as he straightened himself, unable to meet Scotty's eye. Before, his face had been clear and smooth; now, his familiar creases and scowls were returning. Scotty only noticed the shift now. He wondered what caused it.

People began filing out of the turbolift.

"Till later, then, Doctor!" Scotty smiled and waved before heading down the hall.

Bones grabbed his shoulder before he could go another step. Scotty looked back, slightly confused, but Bones wouldn't meet his eyes. His cheeks were flushed, too. "Thanks, Scotty."

"Any tahyme, any tahyme." Scotty grinned before setting off again. If he wasn't careful, the entire Enterprise could accidentally destroy itself under too much strain; Scotty needed to get down to Engineering.

After a moment of being rooted into the same spot, Bones turned on his heel and made his way back into the turbolift. He had to get to Sickbay quickly to grab his equipment before going to the transporter room.

He had a job to do.

((()))

End of Part 8, tbc.

((()))

Author's Note: Yeah, so it's been a while. My internet was all funny. I need a new computer... Soon, I'm gonna get a new laptop! But until then, things are probably going to be a bit slow. I know that lately I've been focusing a lot on the relationship between Kirk and Spock, with Bones and Scotty not really showing up at all... Which is bad... But hey, Kirk and Spock are big players in this game! Their relationship affects everyone on the ship, especially Bones! Besides, it's cute. That's my defense. And I feel like Bones/Scotty is a lot slower and needs other relationships to ascertain its stability, as well as a bunch of thrown together circumstances. So... sorry about not having new Scones material for a while. I hope this last scene made up for it some. there'll be more... eventually.


	9. Of Chasing and Catching

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 9: Of Chasing and Catching

((()))

As he was putting the last finishing touches into the delicacies of the _Sealion's_ course, Finnegan's communicator buzzed. Sitting in the cramped cockpit, he rushed out into the more spacious hallway before flipping it open.

"Agent F68 here."

The crackling of the other line was barely distinguishable, especially in the wake of the roaring engines of the _Sealion_, a ship that had seen better days. In the unlit hall, Finnegan held the communicator up to his ear, halfway engulfed in darkness.

"Affirmative, Kirk has been taken hostage. I am now en route to Mars space station, where I will take him to the ship."

There was another pause while the other line spoke.

Finnegan gestured naturally as he spoke again. "The other agents are ready to strike when I give the signal. I checked their status with the Protean call… Yes, I left it on the ship, but I believe I have successfully implicated…Affirmative."

Finnegan bit his lip. "I could not find the source of the signal. It has been encrypted within the system. Three agents still on the Enterprise are tracking through data looking for it, but are still unsuccessful… Yessir, I'll give the report in fuller detail on the surface of the planet. Yessir. Agent F68 out."

Finnegan grinned as he closed his communicator and stuffed it back into his pocket. So far, almost everything was going to plan.

When he returned to his post at the helm, Finnegan checked on the course progression.

"Ha! The Enterprise is slow as a turtle, Jimmy boy. I suppose that any starship that _you_ run has got t' have some serious issues, then." He calculated some more figures on the screen, about the two courses the ships were following and how fast each of them were going compared to the proximity of the space station.

There was no response. Not that Finnegan had really expected one in the first place, but for a Captain to have his ship and leadership skills insulted in the same breath… you'd think he'd get a bit mad, hmmm? Enough to click the communication button with his forehead and send a scathing reply back to him.

Maybe Jimmy boy was still unconscious. Finnegan quickly tapped up his vitals.

There were none.

A bolt of lightning shot through Finnegan as he realized something was amiss.

It reminded him of something that happened not so long ago, back at Starfleet Academy. Something that tweaked his memory…

Slowly, as if through a haze, Finnegan drew his phaser.

Set phasers to kill.

((()))

Unfortunately, the Enterprise was still in terrible condition from the havoc of Engineering Hell, and could only chug along at Impulse power. Even though the _Sealion_ was only going Warp 2, it was zipping far beyond the possible realm of the Enterprise's tractor beam. Spock knew this quite well, but was determined to change it.

Starfleet was not answering the Enterprise's calls for assistance. Clearly, Spock was on his own. He only had the Mars space station working with him at the moment. Perhaps the Council was debating over the situation, as it should, but Spock needed its help immediately for any good to come of it. Spock's fingers tapped the captain controls on the chair quickly and flawlessly as he connected with Engineering.

"Engineer Scott."

There was a crash and some sparks fizzing on the other end before Scotty answered. "Aye, sir!"

"The Enterprise is currently out of range of the _Sealion_. The needed speed is approximately Warp 4.67 in order to use the tractor beam."

Scotty swore like a sailor before responding intelligently again. "Ah cannae, Commander, she cannae take it! Surely, th' ship will break daewn completely if yeh were t' do tha!"

"This is to save Captain Kirk. Surely something can be done."

There were more sounds of machinery breaking into pieces and exploding. "Commander Spock, the Lady's fallin' apart as it is, on measly Impulse. Engineerin' has too much on its hands t' chase anythin'. Ah'm giving ye all she's got!"

Spock held up his chin with his hand.

"Engineer Scott, we are the Captain's only hope. There is no other option but for us to rescue him from his tormentor. Is that fully understood?"

There was silence from the other line, other than the background of the bits of crackling and explosions still going on. But Scotty was quiet for a moment.

"Aye, Commander."

((()))

Jim slid across small sections of the hallway like a panther, concealing himself behind each bulkhead as if he was an extension of the smooth metal. He had already abandoned his bright gold shirt in favor for the standard Starfleet black slacks. No love was lost between them. Hell, Jim had a whole closet full of the things. About a month ago, he had ordered an entire production line of them for himself. He seemed to lose these shirts as easily as anything; they ripped like paper and were way too conspicuous to wear during a mission like this. He decided to complain to the Committee about the sheer impediment these uniforms caused; Jim was sure that the bright red color contributed to most of the deaths of his Security teams on foreign planetsides during away missions. Others dismissed his theory as paranoia and crazy talk, but Jim was pretty damn sure.

Spock had shielded most of his thoughts for the moment, as Jim needed the space to concentrate, but after such a tangent he impatiently told Jim to focus on the task at hand. Smiling, Jim shook his head and then looked for a convenient room to create a temporary base.

The room Jim came to first was a huge improvement over the cleaner closet he had been stuffed into before. After picking the lock on the door with a strip of metal, Jim closed the door behind him with another easy click. He flipped one of the lights on and inspected his findings.

It was a small storage unit, apparently. There was enough space for limited movement, with enough nooks and crannies for Jim to successfully hide and wage war upon Finnegan if he ever showed up in there.

And maybe some of the stuff in storage could help him, too. Jim really had stumbled upon a goldmine of opportunity by coming to this particular room first; there was an entire package of arms in one of the corners of the room. So nice for Finnegan to supply him with weapons.

He sorted through the package, which was just about as tall as he was, with extreme efficiency. He pulled out two phasers, fully loaded, as well as an oddly designed knife. It was twisted and curved like a modern saber and had sickly pincers all over it, extending like branches from a tree. He thought it was pretty badass, so he picked it up and held it in the light.

There was an unfamiliar symbol ingrained in the metal of the blade, just where the points started branching off. The sheen of the metal was tinted green. Jim inspected the handle of the blade then, and found both an intricate design and what seemed to be a button. He pressed it. The entire blade retracted into the handle. He pressed it a few more times, and the blade came out and went in and came out again.

"Whoa, cool!" Jim muttered excitedly. He would keep this particular knife. It was almost like a keepsake or something. Jim slipped the handle into his belt's third holster and clipped it in after retracting it again.

So not only was Finnegan a traitor to the Federation, but apparently he had some connections to an unknown alien culture. One that made sick, awesome weapons.

Hmmm. Food for thought.

Jim searched the cargo for medical supplies.

((()))

Bones was sitting on the steps of the transport systems, randomly scanning himself, then the operator, then himself, then the operator. He even scanned the entire room with his tricorder for signs of alien life forms, he was so bored. The only stray life signs he found were small bacteria that were on the console, which the operator routinely wiped up once every ten minutes.

Just to be sure he had everything, Bones went through his little case of medical supplies that he flipped open on the ground. He checked the functionality of the equipment thoroughly.

Nothing was wrong.

The operator wasn't familiar with the good doctor's personality, though he had been to a few mandatory physicals in his time on the Enterprise. So when Bones opened his mouth, it surprised the poor lieutenant into shock.

"Damnation!" Bones thrust his black boot onto the ground with a bit more force than necessary and crossed his arms. He stood up and began pacing the length of the room. "Damn that goddamned fucker! And Jim! Ain't he got some kind of, oh, I dunno, _protection_ against these goddamn situations? Ain't he supposed to be the goddamn _Captain_? Goddamn it! Fuck! Shit-for-brains numbskull! Getting himself kidnapped and shit! And that goddamn pointy-eared bastard, with all his goddamn voodoo shit! Shit! That fucking _son of a bitch_ – "

Bones' broken communicator bleeped again.

" – And this fucking broken piece of _shit_ won't quit fucking BEEPING!" Bones grabbed the offending piece of machinery and flung it against to wall in a fit of rage. He was still breathing hard, his shoulders completely tensed.

Then, Bones turned on the operator, who cringed into his station, trying to be invisible. It didn't work.

"And then all we have to save Jim with is another goddamn machine, one that just _happens_ to always be on the brink of breaking down or switching his particles around in the wrong way or passing through radiation or some other shit!" Bones stomped up to the operator menacingly.

When the operator shied away, Bones spoke quietly, controlled the volume of his voice, but there was still an undercurrent of rolling rage. "Will this machine save Jim, or is it still fucking broken like it always is?"

"Uh… Yessir, checking status now, sir." The poor operator clicked some buttons hesitantly to check the status of the transporting equipment. The status popped up after a second.

After checking the results, the operator forgot he was being threatened. He sprung up to recheck the findings. Then he contacted the bridge.

"Commander Spock, the transporter is malfunctioning!"

Bones facepalmed.

((()))

It was in the third row of boxes where Jim finally found some decent medical supplies. Cleaning some of his cuts came first, then he bandaged some of his worst injuries. He wasn't an expert in the medical field, but Jim knew enough to keep himself going; he found the hypo and the stimulant.

Now he just had to steel himself to use the shot. This was the hard part. Spock helped with that.

Fssshhhh. There, he gave himself the stimulant. He could keep fighting until his body literally broke down for a few more hours.

There was a small clink from across the unit.

Jim's ears pricked up.

((()))

Scotty was blasting through sections of Engineering, checking on progress and asking anyone for any sign of improvement. The Enterprise had been fruitlessly working on making warp for the past ten minutes to no avail, stuck in Impulse.

The _Sealion_ was pulling away from them.

With their Captain.

And that, Scotty could not abide.

He dove into the throng of Engineers that were trying to fix one of the converters, and pulled out a minute later. It was now working perfectly. "Git t' th' main power converter, alluv ye!"

The throng rushed to comply. Scotty ran through his decks of Engineering in desperation, trying to find the perfect solution. He had already run tests on the warp engines, and the anti-matter converter was completely shot, there was no way for anyone to fix it without some time in a shop with quite a few new parts… He had sent the engineers to do an impossible task that he could not do, and he knew it. Scotty knew that there was no way to fix that power converter…

Except…

Scotty remembered his little pet project.

The Heart.

With a mischievous grin, Scotty whisked himself across Engineering.

((()))

The hair on the back of Jim's neck rose. He was definitely being watched. Or sensed in some way, at least.

He wondered how he hadn't noticed Finnegan open the door. He also thought he'd properly set a few nasty traps for him… Maybe Finnegan had entered another way. But how did he know where Kirk was, anyway?

Kirk slunk back into the shadows, making his way in a circle around the entire room to search for the intruder and how he got in.

He found the opening; there was an air vent that was hanging open. It was all pretty obvious, actually, now that Kirk thought about it… He should have prepared for multiple entrances. He closed the vent, locked it with a silent melting session.

But now, the time for thoughts was over; Spock warned him to be careful, and Jim agreed. But now wasn't the time for logical dissertation. They were two animals circling each other with death in their claws, and Jim knew it. This was the time for action, the time for instinct, to take over.

So he let it.

Spock put his shields up just in time.

Spock sucked in a breath in the command chair. It felt like Jim was pounding on his shields relentlessly with his adrenaline, anger, bloodlust, and everything else. Through the edges of the shield, Jim was leaking through.

Spock really had to be quick in this bond; Jim's mind was so strong. Standing up and checking the status of the pursuit again, Spock was clearly agitated.

Uhura noticed.

((()))

Nurse Chapel had been sitting at the front desk of Sickbay for hours. She knew there was a red alert, she knew that Doctor McCoy was in the Transporter Room, she knew that the Captain was kidnapped.

She also knew that there were absolutely no patients in Sickbay, and that she was bored out of her mind.

To fit the mood, she pulled out some red nail polish and slicked it on. One by one, all of her fingers were carefully dabbed. There, with a bit of time, it'll dry. Her nails now matched the flickering light at the door. She softly blew onto them to speed up the drying process.

There were still no patients.

And then Chapel ran out of patience.

She grabbed her communicator, called on some other nurses to take her position, cashed in some favors, and finally got her way. Chapel also made sure to take a full medkit and a sedative, just in case. She made her way to the Transporter Room once her replacement showed up.

Fighting through a crowd of people in the turbolift, Chapel finally made it to the right deck. Getting past Security who were marching and taking up entire hallways, Chapel finally made it to the right door. The door swished open and she walked in.

"Doctor."

"Nurse."

The operator didn't think it was really his place to say anything, so he didn't.

"…Anything particular to report to me, Chapel?"

"No, sir. There have been absolutely no patients at Sickbay for a number of hours, and I felt that my time would be better spent as your medical assistant in the case of the Captain's return."

"Well, then." Bones sat back down. "I assume you got another nurse to take up your place?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good, good." Bones invited her to sit next to him with a gentlemanly wave of his hand. She complied.

They waited.

((()))

Scotty got the news that the transporter wasn't working when he was digging through a pile of metal contraptions. He immediately ordered a three-man team to tackle it.

He was busy, in the moment of a brilliant idea.

He could save the Captain and the ship, all at once.

Or he could destroy both.

He needed to be careful.

Scotty grinned.

((()))

Three red-shirted Engineers burst into the transporter room, making all three start in surprise even though they had known they were coming.

Bones stood and grabbed his case, as did Chapel. The operator, trained only as an operator, uselessly stood to the side while the pragmatic engineers took over.

They were real pros; Scotty had sent three of his best men to take on the transporter. It was truly a finnicky instrument, if Scotty was truthful; it wasn't dependable in most of these terrible situations. So he had made sure to send the best while he was busy.

They worked as a seamless team, each diligently working on some part of the same task. Each sawed off one part of the metal covering to allow wires and codes to peek out of the console. Then Lieutenant Patel, the leader of the trio, took center stage as he worked the wires through each other. Officers Leo and Renolds took position at the separate stations, monitoring progress and helping where they could. One went to manually check the pods for function before returning and switching position with the other. After ten minutes, Patel ascertained that it was time to test the transport capabilities.

They decided to at first test the machine by beaming an inanimate object to somewhere in the room. They used a piece of the metal they had burnt off the console.

It didn't work.

((()))

Still digging through the mass amounts of metal junk around Engineering, Scotty still hadn't found his little project.

Then, looking up, he found it.

Keenser, the little bastard, had taken it, and he was currently jumping on top of a bunch of very important Engineering doohickies with the Heart in his little grubby hands!

"This isn't a playground for ye, ye li'l wrench!" Scotty called after him, trying to keep up with him by running along the Engineering floor.

Suddenly, Scotty stopped. That gave him an idea.

He picked up a small wrench and flung it at the blur that was Keenser.

Scotty heard a pathetic sounding squeal and thud. There was no more movement on top of the machines.

He climbed up on the bars, grinning.

He took back his Heart in triumph.

((()))

Circle after circle was made in the darkness, and the ma between the two of them, these two animals, grew smaller and smaller. They knew where the other one was purely out of instinct. There were no tricks or traps, only them…

And suddenly, the two of them were face to face.

((()))

End of Chapter 9, tbc

((()))

Author's Note:

"Ma" is the term used to describe the distance between two fighters.

I finally got my laptop! Yay! MacBook Pro! Woot woot! Things are going to go a lot faster now. Hopefully.

I was on a car trip this weekend for the Fourth of July, and in the car I was planning the chapter sequences out. Guess what? I finished half this arc… really, less than half… and got an amazing 28 chapters roughly planned out. This is crazy, no? Looks like we'll be here a long while, because this story keeps on having something to say. It's almost ridiculous how long this will be. And yes, I plan to finish it.

Shout-out to _LastResortUsername_ for guessing the evil kidnapper! though I think it was pretty straightforward if you watch the Original Series. Obviously it's the douche Finnegan from Shore Leave. I really hate him, so he's the evil guy. No deep reason why… or is there? Mwahahahaha!

Til next time, then… And all of you who reach this point, Review! …Please?


	10. Of Engines and Excitement

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 10: Of Engines and Excitement

((()))

Reclining as he was in the temporary seat of command in the center of the bridge, First Officer Spock would never admit to feeling anything at all. He was in control of the ship, he was in control of the officers, and so he must be in control of himself; it was pure logic. Another thing Spock would never admit to, sitting in the Enterprise command chair, was for him to not be acting entirely logically.

Spock shifted slightly in his chair.

He certainly did not feel uncomfortable.

Of course not.

Even if this was Jim's chair. Even if Spock should not be sitting in it, and that he should be across the room at his own station, taking scientific readings of the surrounding areas and classifying new star systems. Even though Jim should be sitting here.

Even if the flat, smooth surface of the chair was already blazing with his Vulcan heat.

Even if Spock could feel Jim's stress and adrenaline pounding through his mind incessantly, like a thousand jagged, rusty nails, clipping through his mental barriers.

Even if, when Spock closed his eyes, he saw a blond Irishman take aim right towards Jim's chest, inches away. And fire rapidly as Jim flung himself out of the way.

He could see flashes of what was happening down on the _Sealion_ as clearly as Jim could, and he tried desperately to block it out. But it wasn't working. Spock slowly brought his right hand up to his face as his back curved over, and his fingers curled into the Vulcan mind meld.

"Commander, ze _Sealion_ eez pullink awt uff our sensor range."

The comment snapped Spock's back ramrod straight, and his arm slapped back at his side. "Thank you, Lieutenant Chekhov. Our position, Lieutenant Sulu."

"Still on course at Mark 4, sir. Still another hour until we reach the Mars II Space Station at current speed."

"And with the position and speed of the _Sealion_, when will it reach orbit?" Spock could have easily calculated the answer himself, on a normal basis, but he was away from his usual devices in order to get the necessary information to put into the necessary equations. That, and he had a pounding headache for some reason. He leaned back in the chair and subtly massaged his temple.

After Sulu clicked a few buttons, he responded, "Approximately fifteen minutes, sir."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Sulu."

Stopping his fingers from circling his temple, Spock's eyes drifted closed.

He saw what Jim saw, he felt what Jim felt.

_(Shit, he got me, clipped my shoulder, the good one, damn – )_

There was blinding pain in his right arm, and he was desperately grasping at the bleeding gash through his Starfleet blacks.

_(Bastard, I'll get him this time, when he comes around the corner – )_

Spock saw shadows lurking through the aisle of a storage facility, his back was against a broad bulkhead and he was completely concealed in darkness. He heard a noise.

_(Crouch, dammit, crouch – )_

Jim slunk against the ground, smoothly and predatorily, despite his injuries.

Finnegan confidently strode down the aisle, gun cocked. Jim could see him from here, through the gaps and spaces in the blocks of storage units. Suddenly, Finnegan called out, trying to start up banter. He started talking about all of the different vital points of the human body, listing them off one by one. Slowly.

Jim usually loved battle banter. At the moment, it sent waves of uncontrollable hatred through him, and he ground his teeth to bite back a scathing reply and a death threat or two. Now was the time to be silent.

_(Quiet, must be quiet. Silent as the soft breeze before a storm… Quiet as the falling snow… Spock.)_

"Now, Jimmy boy, which place would you like t' be shot t' death? So many options, hmmm?" The Irishman snickered, almost uncontrollably, hysterically, and his arm shook. His smile stretched over his face, twisting his features into something demented and demonic.

(_Spock_…)

Jim's roiling emotions quieted for the moment as he softly spoke the name. Finnegan was coming closer.

(I am here, Jim.

_I need you to know._

I already know.

_I know. But I'm specially telling you this anyway._

Proceed.)

Jim knew that talking, even his slight whispering, was allowing Finnegan another chance to track him down, but this really, really needed to be said. Right now.

(Then you must say it, Jim.

_I – )_

"Commander Spock, Chief Officer Montgomery Scott contacting the bridge."

Spock's eyes snapped open.

He would never admit to being disoriented, especially in the command chair.

"He's sending the status of the engines over the Science comm, sir."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Uhura." Spock stood and briskly strode over to his regular station after a moment of silence.

Jim was hiding under a large bulkhead, dripping blood, still waiting, still silent.

The engines were still currently unable to operate at their full capacity, the repairs taken during Earth's orbit had only gotten about halfway done, though most of the work was being undone at the moment through overstimulation. Spock estimated another ten minutes before the Enterprise completely stalled under these same conditions.

Finnegan was still pacing around the storage room, gun cocked; Jim had lost sight of him, but he could hear his footsteps.

Straightening, Spock contacted Engineering.

"Chief Engineer Scott."

He responded instantly. "Aye, sir."

"By my calculations, the Enterprise has enough resources for only ten more minutes of space travel at all."

"Aye, sir."

By Spock's admittedly poor emotive detector, Lieutenant Commander Scott's readout was at an alarmingly cheerful rate.

Jim was on the move, changing to a different location, swinging stealthily to another aisle in an attempt to find Finnegan's location and to better conceal himself. It hurt like hell. It admittedly did nothing to improve the mood of Commander Spock.

"Lieutenant Commander."

"Aye, sir?"

"As I am partially familiar as to the emotive nuances of yourself and other crewmembers, and as my logic dictates to me, this period in time is relatively stressful and serious for the human mind. However, your tone indicates that your mood does not adhere to this particular mindset. Would you care to elaborate?"

Scott took a moment to laugh loudly over the speaker. Most crewmembers on the bridge turned around to look.

Jim caught a glimpse of Finnegan's blond hair.

"Aye, Mister Spock. Ah was thinkin' about mah options fer fixin' th' Silver Lady, an' Ah found tha' there wasn't exactly an option frum Starfleet perspective, say."

"Extrapolate."

"Well, sir, Ah believe Ah may 'ave found th' solution."

Spock's hairs raised on the back of his neck, his shoulders tensed, and his back stiffened even more than usual, if that was even possible. Everyone on the bridge moved like they were set in wet, slow concrete.

Jim stopped.

"What is your solution, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Weeeell, Ah dunno if it's going t' work, naew, Mister Spock. Ah've just got t' check n' make sure tha' it can connect properly…" Scotty whistled as he wrestled with machinery, the wires buzzing and the metal clanking over the communication. Wires? Spock furrowed his brow. Starfleet hadn't created anything with wires for over twenty years. Jim echoed his confusion.

"Commander Spock, Ah have this idea, that Ah could connect th' warp drive with this little wee project tha' Ah've been workin' on. 'Twould act as both the antimatter inducer an' th' antimatter injector, as well as the deuterium injector. All uv these at th' moment are offline with no chance of recovery, sir."

Spock sat down at his own station. "Send me the data on this project of yours, Lieutenant Commander."

"Aye sir." A few seconds later, Scotty's files on the Heart project popped up on Spock's screen. He flipped through them like lightning.

The basic idea of the Heart as an antimatter inducer, an antimatter injector, and a deuterium injector was surprisingly simple. The Heart itself was designed with alarming efficiency, with a serving of Scotty's inventive touch. A human heart had four chambers while this Heart had six, built in a spiral-columnar fashion, resembling the DNA strand or a spiral staircase. The wires Scotty had decided to use in a flash of genius were used as if they were arteries and veins, flowing throughout the contraption. When activated, the Heart would pump its contents through itself by contracting one section at a time, with each section gaining more and more energy for each section until all the energy was explosively released into the outgoing tubule. The timing of the bursts of energy could be maintained by a device Scotty had created resembling a pacemaker, and the activation of the contraption was easily achieved through the practical application of electric power, easily achieved by a T-3 Energy Converter.

The method Scotty was planning on using to fix the warp drive was genius. By fixing up to Heart to the antimatter containment and the deuterium cartridge, the Heart would channel both the antimatter and the deuterium into the warp core, through the dilithium crystals, simultaneously. It was unheard of for both of the substances to travel to this destination together; in classic Starfleet texts, as well as every starship in action, there were separate machinations for these two functions. The concentrations of both of the substances were distributed properly by the magnetic pull Scotty had thought up, as well as his idea to specially treat the antimatter to separate before use for the deuterium to diffuse thoroughly. Therefore, according to theory, the chemical reaction in the warp core would function as normal, but with a more efficient method of causing it.

"Lieutenant Commander, this idea is highly original and efficient." That was the highest praise, coming from Spock.

"Thankee kindly, sir, but this is jus' a copy of the wee Slistas' heart, then."

"Understood. In any case, this machine is quite impressive."

"Aye. She's beautiful."

"However, there is a great risk in utilizing this machine without methodical experimentation and figuring the power relays to match those of the ship's engines. There is the high probability of 4,543,332.335 to 1 that you will not choose the proper outset, and the engines could easily become overloaded. There is also the problem of power fluctuation unknown which is inherent in the design of the machine as a heart."

"Aye, sir, those're all great points." Scotty still sounded as dapper as a Scottish terrier in the springtime rounding up sheep.

Jim was trying really hard not to laugh, which made Spock's lip twitch upwards in an unwilling grin. He buried himself in his station so no one would see.

_(Give Scotty the go-ahead, then, Spock.)_

"Well, then, Lieutenant Commander, you may attempt your experiment with Project Heart. For the moment, work on connecting the Heart to the necessary consoles. When you have successfully installed the Heart, contact the bridge again. Update regularly at every stage of the operation."

"Aye, sir."

Spock ended the transmission.

(You are amused at the Lieutenant Commander's behavior.

_Indeed I am._

Most illogical.

_Nothing but_.)

Jim was trying not to laugh again. It seemed to be a natural phenomenon that Spock always had the impulse to laugh with him.

Finished temporarily with Engineering reports, Spock returned to the Captain's chair. Clicking on a few buttons, Spock checked the status of the transporter again. The engineers working on it were still not complete with their repair. They said as much before Chief Medical Officer McCoy butted in on the video transmission.

"Dammit, Spock, the damn machine ain't working! Do you even need to check? Get Scotty up here t' fix it!"

Jim chuckled quietly. (_Bones_.)

"Lieutenant Commander Scott is currently unavailable, as he is in the process of an exceedingly dangerous and completely original mechanical procedure that may allow us to reach the _Sealion_."

"Well, even if we reach it, we ain't got the resources to get Jim back if this damn thing doesn't work!"

(I do not comprehend the amusement gained by his excessive rudeness and lack of respect for authority.

_Yeah, well, keep on kidding yourself. You know you love the guy._)

Spock didn't really have anything to say to that; besides, his light emotions were uncontrollably bubbling up so that Jim could taste them.

(_See, I knew it_.)

Spock informed the three-man team to continue working until Lieutenant Commander Scott was free. Bones huffed off.

Spock sat back against the chair, having no other pressing matters brought directly to his attention.

He closed his eyes again, and let himself see through Jim.

Again, it was a dark storage unit. A trail a blood was behind him, barely noticeable in the darkness but plain enough if you were looking for it.

(_There needs to be another way for me to get to the Enterprise, maybe this hunk of junk has a transporter…? I could always try to get a shuttlecraft… Though this ship doesn't seem big enough to warrant a shuttlecraft… I could try taking over the ship through manual control… First, I have to take care of Finnegan_.)

Before, Spock dimly knew that Jim and Finnegan had had a direct confrontation. It had begun with a Mexican standoff, with both of them pointing phasers at each other's hearts. They had circled around each other warily, and finally Jim took the first move.

He had gone down low to the ground and charged, thrusting out with his right leg in order to collapse Finnegan's stance. In response, Finnegan shot wildly at Jim, missing the first three because of Jim's peculiar weaving motion but scratching his shoulder on the fourth. As Jim dove into Finnegan's space, he disregarded his wounded arm, and instead shot three times into the very vitals Finnegan would later be listing off.

Nothing happened.

As Jim was slightly puzzled that Finnegan should have been dead, or at least unconscious from the stun blasts in his abdomen vital points, Finnegan took the opportunity to slam his phaser against Jim's skull. That spun Jim away and onto the ground, his phaser flying across the smooth floor. Smirking, Jim could feel the smirk, Finnegan closed in on him. Pulling out his other phaser slowly from his belt, Jim fired in an instant up at him.

He hadn't hit Finnegan's mouth, definitely. He was still hearing it blabber on and on about killing him. No, he had hit something more important – Finnegan's arm. Not his dominant arm, because Finnegan was too cocky at the moment to have a wounded firing arm, but his arm nonetheless.

As far as Jim was concerned, they were basically equal at the moment, both with wounded arms. Though technically Jim was right-handed, he could shoot with either hand pretty much equally.

(Though you are still quite a bit more injured than he.

_Hey, I already treated those injuries._

Still, the wounds exist, do they not?

_Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah._

Do not get injured again.

_I'll keep that in mind, thanks. It's a good thing you're here in my head to tell me these types of things_.)

The only problem was that Jim needed to lure Finnegan in somehow, to get close enough to him to disable him without getting shot again. Unconsciously, Jim fingered his third holster.

Under his breath, Jim whispered, "Maybe…"

He pulled out the multi-pronged alien scimitar, still encased within its handle, and compared it to his phaser in his other hand.

(_There's something to be said for logic, after all._

Appreciated by many, used by few.

_Hey, was that an insult?_

Not at all, Captain. You have used it most wondrously.

_Why thank you, Mr. Spock_.)

Pressing the button, watching the blades bloom from the handle and glimmer in the dim lighting, Jim swiftly cut open the air vent Finnegan had used to enter the storage room and then sealed the way shut again with his phaser melting the metal back into place.

Jim crept through the tunnel, still hearing every loud, brash comment of Finnegan's all the way down the small, enclosed space, echoing around him.

This way, Finnegan would stalk the same room for some time alone, with no way out but to blast through the melted vent or go through the ridiculous amount of traps Jim set up for him at the door. Neither option looked very quick to Jim. It looked like Jim had some time on his hands. And some freedom.

(_What am I going to do first?_)

Attempt to gain control of the _Sealion_, Jim.

_Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I need some alone time in my head, though._

Affirmative. I need this as well.)

Spock tuned down the connection as best he could, with Jim's help. It was easier now that Jim was not trying to hunt a man down and was calm for the most part. They both needed to focus on what was going on in front of them at the moment; Spock had a starship to run, and Jim had a starship to take over. Both were a bit busy.

"Commander Spock, Scotty here, reportin' status of Project Heart."

"Proceed."

"Aye, sir. Well, Ah've connected th' wee little thing t' both the deuterium cartridge, th' antimatter injector, th' antimatter inducer, th' deuterium injector, an' th' warp drive."

"Are there any difficulties so far in maintaining regular safety levels?"

"Nay. Commander. All's well here."

"Send me the updated information of the connection."

"…Done, sir."

Spock quickly checked over the files, knowing that Lieutenant Commander Scott was quite adept at his job and knew what he was doing when he installed machinery. Especially when that machinery had anything to do with warp mechanics.

"Thank you, Chief Engineer. Is the device ready for immediate activation?"

"Nay, sir, Ah still haveta set up th' shock converters, outlayers, trancievers, an' all th' – "

"Then I suggest you do so now. The Enterprise is running out of time."

"Aye, sir."

"Lieutenant Commander Scott, how much time will you need before you have completed the entire installation of Project Heart?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Ah would say… ten minutes, sir."

"Currently, the Enterprise has a total of eleven minutes left until the Impulse engines are unable to function properly. You may have your ten minutes, Chief Engineer. Use them wisely."

"Aye."

Without missing a beat, Spock turned on the Navigations and Piloting consoles. "Lieutenant Sulu, position and course. And Ensign Chekhov, closely study the _Sealion_'s every action."

His orders were instantly followed.

Again, Spock was left to sit in the command chair. The Captain's chair. Waiting was all he could do now. That, and constantly check on status.

It was then when Spock noticed Uhura watching him.

He turned towards her. "Lieutenant…?" An eyebrow rose on his face.

"Sir, no contact from Starfleet at all since our last transmission. The decision of the Council to send in more force is still under discussion."

"Understood." Spock turned back to contemplate the screen before him, showing far-away stars seemingly zip past the Enterprise.

"Commander Spock, may I have a quick word."

Again, Spock looked at Uhura in bewilderment. This time he concealed his physical response to the emotion in time. It was unheard of for a lower officer to ask a Commander for a second away from her controls in the middle of a shipwide disaster. She had not even really asked; it sounded more like an order.

"Certainly." Spock stood, and the two of them made their way to the Captain's ready room, right off of the bridge.

Once behind closed doors, Uhura grabbed his face between her hands. "What's wrong?" She asked. "Are you okay? What can I do?" She began to pepper his face with tiny kisses, going up the jaw line.

Spock was frozen for a second from the sheer unexpectedness of the encounter. Then, as he adjusted himself to the situation, Spock's hands came up to Uhura's, and covered them.

"Nyota."

Slowly, Spock slid her hands back down, and held them on his chest.

"I am unaware of what you are referring to at the moment."

"Is it because the Captain's been taken?" Uhura knew that Spock knew exactly what she was talking about. "Is it because the Enterprise might break down and we might not save Kirk?"

Spock's hands dropped to his sides, letting hers go. "Maybe it's something else?" She captured his torso in a hug. "Or is it all of the above?"

Spock inclined his head slightly in response.

"Nyota, I must be able to handle situations such as this. It is essential for me to be able to effectively cope with the pressures of command upon a starship in order to successfully lead." Spock would never admit that sometimes he was unable to cope.

Uhura spoke all documented languages of the Federation. One that she was most familiar with was body language, and all of the little things that Spock would not admit in Standard, he admitted through his body language. She knew. He wouldn't look at her. And he wasn't directly answering any of her questions.

"…There's still hope, Spock."

He looked down into her eyes.

"Hope," Uhura continued, "to save the Captain. I… When I thought the Captain was dead… the smallest bit of hope let me find the truth."

"Nyota…" Spock stated, "Vulcans do not hope."

Uhura's eyebrow was raised this time.

"However," Spock continued, "as long as the probability of failure is higher than zero percent, there is still a minute chance of our success."

Uhura's eyes twinkled.

"Then you had better capitalize on your minute chances, Commander."

"Indeed, Lieutenant. In order to do so, we must both return to our posts."

"Affirmative, sir."

With one last peck on the lips, Uhura marched back to her station. Spock first stopped by his regular position at the Science console before returning to the command chair. He glanced at the timekeeper. Scotty had had five minutes to work already, and that left another five more before the experiment began.

It was at that exact moment when Scotty reported to the bridge. "Commander Spock."

Spock almost started in alarm. "Lieutenant Commander Scott. Has there been a setback in your operation?"

"Nay, Commander." Scotty was smiling, and Spock somehow knew it. "Th' necessary work fer th' complete set-up of Project Heart 'as been completed."

"Noted. Will this in any way be controlled by the Helm?"

"Aye, sir, Lieutenant Sulu will be able t' control the actual activation o' th' warp drive, jus' lahike 'ee always does. Jus' make sure he activates th' compilation of all three of the Heart's tasks simultaneously, then?"

"Of course, Lieutenant Commander. Activate the Heart when I give the order, then, Chief Engineer."

"Aye."

"Lieutenant Sulu, are you prepared for warp?"

"Yessir."

"Then, Lieutenant Commander Scott, activate Project Heart."

"Aye aye, sir!" Scotty complied quite willingly.

The engine thrummed with new life, and the entire ship felt it shake once or twice before it settled down.

Jim was dim in the back of Spock's head, but there nonetheless, and he had successfully escaped the current clutches of a battle. He was trying to find the pilot console, albeit unsuccessfully, and stumbling around with untold injuries. He needed to be treated immediately. Besides, the chances of Finnegan finding him before he found the console were too high for Spock's liking. This Project Heart was Spock's last resort, and he would take it, despite the danger. For Jim.

"Now, Lieutenant Sulu, activate Warp 5."

"Yessir, Commander."

Sulu turned up the throttle and gunned it for all he was worth.

Nothing happened.

Spock stood slowly from his chair, completely comprehending his utter failure.

Then he was smashed back into his seat by the sudden shift to warp.

((()))

End of Chapter 10

tbc

((()))

Author's Note:

Look at me, aren't I wonderful? I actually got this chapter done on time! Hahaha. Well. Anyway.

Sorry for the severe lack of Bones, but he wouldn't really show up in this one, since it's in Spock's POV and Bones is mostly irrelevant to the mission. I got like three lines of him in somehow, but even that was a stretch.

So I don't actually know anything about _real_ machinery, let alone pseudo-magical Star Trek machinery. I've been researching a bunch about it online, and hopefully I got the terminology and all that right with the warp core mechanics. However, there's going to be a bunch more of this technobabble stuff, and if anyone is really good with that kind of stuff, for seriously I need your help. Because I… am bad at physics and space science and machines. And basic engineering. All of which I have to know for the next few chapters. And I don't. Please help! Assist me if you can! Try to run me through the basics, tell me random specifics, I don't care! Just teach me all you know about physics and machinery, PLEASE!

Oh, and review too.


	11. Of Guilt and Gall

_Prior-Chapter Author's Note:_ Yeah, so I've taken forever with this update. My defense? Moving in to college is more difficult than I thought. Takes a bunch of time and effort. Actually, it takes time and effort to _make_ time, which is kind of ironic. Besides, I didn't get any help from anyone on the whole 'science' thing, which I needed. So I researched a bunch of stuff on my own and rolled with it. If you find anything wrong with the science, well… Just remember that I don't actually know anything about it. And roll with it.

Thanks for following me through this rough patch in our relationship! It's amazing for anyone to still be so devoted after we haven't seen each other for so long! I have a new appreciation for people that make long-distance relationships work.

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 11: Of Guilt and Gall

((()))

Finally, after much consternation and finagling, Scotty set up all of those tricky blighters that Starfleet called connection grids but Scotty called something much less appropriate and less socially acceptable. And he had finished treating the antimatter with magnetization, which had been much more difficult than it seemed because it took too much of Scotty's precious time, and he was raring to go. Finally, after weeks of theoretical imaginings over this wee little project, he could make something out of it! Scotty grinned.

He really liked this ship. He really did.

Spock gave the order.

He flipped the switch.

The ship was still.

Then everything thrummed with new life as the Heart began working, slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster until –

((()))

Bones stalked the transporter room like a wild animal. The apparently incapable engineers were still muttering over the consoles, furrowing their brows in almost comical confusion. Bones had given up on them long ago. The only engineer he could really trust to get anything done in a crisis was Scotty.

He kicked the wall, a poor, innocent, inanimate bystander. His face darkened with blood as his anger levels jumped off the scale. Bones' mouth hardened into a grim slash across his face, peppered with five o'clock shadow. Reflexively, his arms leapt behind his back and gripped each other tightly as his shoulders tensed.

The room quieted as the engineers' minds ran blank in surprise. Then Bones spoke, filling the silence with his growl.

"Goddamn technology. We make it, but we sure as hell can't control it. We're a goddamn danger to ourselves. Man just ain't ready for the level of responsibility it takes to run such goddamn complicated tomfoolery."

Slowly, Bones turned back to the center of the room and sauntered back to the steps, joining Chapel. The engineers quickly busied themselves in their charts and graphs and sketches, in earnest to show that they had heard nothing. Bones didn't even spare them a glance; honestly, they could have been invisible and he would have looked at them more often. He was trying to forget they were there. Bones knew that he might blow up if he admitted they were still over there, theorizing.

Chapel stood from the steps of the platform after finishing the last level of 4DTetris. She was too much of a lady to stretch and yawn, though it was what she desperately wanted to do. Instead, she simply adjusted the fringe of her uniform, flattening out any creases and looking for any wrinkles in the fabric. It was purely reflexive; the material used for the uniforms was specially designed to never wrinkle and stay exceptionally clean despite extensive use.

"Chapel?" Bones looked up at her, taken out of his moment of pure, unadulterated loathing by unexpected surprise.

She smiled briefly. "Is a woman still allowed to powder her nose in these types of situations, Doctor?"

Bones looked down in embarrassment. "Yes, yes, of course." She started walking to the door.

After he had settled back down on the step, surprise melted from his face to leave a distinguished, deep exhaustion. Lidded eyes gazed across the room, seeing nothing.

Glancing back, Chapel caught an image of the Doctor. She burned with curiosity. _What does he see?_ she wondered.

Then the doors shut, and she had no other option but to move on.

But Bones was still very much in a standstill. It was as if he was literally stuck within that tiny little room, stuck inside himself.

What did he see?

He saw flashes of what had been, and what might be. He saw countless gored officers, except he counted every single one of them, painstakingly, caringly. There were so many cases, so many patients, so many tears, so many lost. Spock, with his glazed eyes and shaking hands, gripping his skull in a futile attempt to wrench the pain from his head. Jim, who had been injured in every way imaginable and more on countless away missions, always sacrificing himself for the good of the other officers. He saw Scotty's body spread before him on a slab, opened to reveal his insides, his hands fishing through his guts in a wild attempt to save him.

He saw the blood on his plastic gloves, saw the blood soak through.

Bones' eyes crunched together as he clasped his hands, as he let his forehead fall onto his white, threaded fingers, as he prayed for the outcome to be peaceful, to be successful, but most of all, bloodless. He prayed to God for an end to this hellish torture of powerlessness, and for hope.

Because that was all he could do.

((()))

Giotto had just been going through the typical security routine when the Red Alert was given. That meant trouble, and so did Commander Spock's message about the pursuit of the spacecraft _Sealion_. He changed gears.

Following procedure, Giotto focused on inter-ship security details instead of shipwide details. Instead of constantly getting updates from parading squads from around the ship, Giotto made certain of invasion teams for possible transport onto the other vessel, fully equipped and competent officers that he trusted on his life. He went over proper procedure for overtaking and claiming a ship for the teams, and gave them the full designs of the _Sealion_, gleaned from scans. They hashed together a cohesive plan through quick decisions and agreements.

Also corresponding with his position, in the event of a Red Alert, all crewmembers had certain positions to take aboard the Enterprise, and it was one of his many jobs to check that all Security personnel were properly in place. This was extremely handy in case of an alien invasion or enemy transport on their ship in attempt of takeover.

It was not the most exciting of jobs, but it was quick and efficient. Giotto would send an activation sequence to every Security station' position, and the officers would individually respond with the shutdown sequence. When the activation sequence was not shut down in time, it would loop back to Giotto, informing him of that crewmember's absence.

He only remembered that there was a Security detail in the brig looking after a murder suspect after the crewmembers absent from their positions were mostly from the detail he had assigned earlier that day. He switched over the activation sequences directly t the brig. He waited for a response.

There was none.

Giotto knew that the guys he assigned were usually very animated and couldn't have fallen asleep or started drinking during their shifts. They also weren't the type of guys who were supremely interested in staring at a wall for an entire shift, either, and would customarily respond to any sort of message in a heartbeat.

He also knew that, not only was the Siresian imprisoned in the brig a security threat because of his possible wrongdoing, but also because of his earlier attack on the Enterprise's engines and other unknown abilities. Shortly put, the alien was unpredictable, both in mind and action.

So Giotto was suspicious.

The suspicion crawled in the back of his mind, beginning with a prickle and spreading until he was absolutely sure. Giotto knew a Security risk when he saw one, and he was not going to let it become another disaster, like the Engineering Hell incident. That particular incident showed him as a failure of a security chief, and he was damned if he was going to let something equally embarrassing happen again.

Dashing out of his office, Giotto pulled out his communicator and headed towards the brig.

"Security detail in the brig, please respond." As he suspected, there was no answer. He called another detail and requested their backup. They would be a few minutes; Giotto was going to end up at the brig first and completely alone.

He pulled out his phaser and set it to kill.

It was empty when Giotto finally reached the brig. Well, the bodies of his Security officers were strewn across the floor inside the containment chamber, but there was no criminal suspect in sight.

He picked up his communicator and tried to contact the bridge before he was flung across the brig from the sudden shift to warp.

((()))

After being encapsulated in an abyss or cloud or sea of extreme concentration for what seemed like an eternity, Bones was shocked out of his reverie by the exit of the incompetent engineers.

The vague shuffling noises paper makes had disappeared, and the footsteps were quickly fading. They were gone. Probably to ask Scotty for directions on the damn thing. He snorted and then stopped in surprise. He hadn't meant to snort, and was startled by the noise in the suddenly quiet room.

Well, it wasn't quiet, exactly. There was a slight humming noise from the machinery of the ship, of course. But Bones almost didn't hear that particular sound; his ears had catalogued that pitch so completely that he didn't think he _could_ anymore. He was solemnly contemplating the silence when his communicator went off.

_Beep beep beep!_

He almost stomped on the damn thing, but decided to see if might actually be a call. Maybe Spock had something important to say and the damn thing was deciding to work for once. He flipped it open after retrieving it from the ground.

"Chief Medical Officer here." After a beat of silence, Bones guessed that there was nobody on the other line. He was just about ready to shut the damn thing and smash it to pieces when there was a slight

_blip!_

Again, Bones was shocked out of his anger by surprise. His eyes widened and he held the thing up again, inspecting it like a curious cat.

After a moment of indecision, he held it back up to his ear. With the hum of the ship, he couldn't hear anything coming from the tiny speaker on his communicator. Bones tried to remember which button thing was for volume, and twisted it with relish, back and forth, when he finally found it.

There was some static at first, especially when he was readjusting the volume, but then the channel evened out again. This time it was much clearer – there was definitely a bunch of sounds coming out of his communicator. Mostly, they were indistinct and seemed far-off. Bones couldn't pin down one; they were all meshed together into one, complicated sound that he couldn't decipher. Almost like the hum of the ship, or any other piece of machinery…

He flipped the communicator closed. These noises probably meant that the thing was far gone, somewhere in machine hell. Bones really didn't know anything about machinery, and if the communicator was broken, there was no way he was going to be able to fix it by twiddling dials like a child.

Again, he was left alone in the small transporter room.

Alone with his thoughts.

((()))

Jim had finally gained access to the cockpit of the _Sealion_, which had taken much longer than he had expected. There were a great deal more traps and tricks to getting into it and staying alive afterwards than usual. Apparently, the only person who was ever meant to fly the ship was Finnegan himself. Strange… Almost as if he were specifically meant to go on this mission by the builders themselves…

Jim mused to himself as his hands moved like lightning over the controls, attempting to get some type of handle over the cleverly encrypted autopilot. Besides which, he had known Finnegan in school a long time ago, and he was never strong in computer sciences. No, Finnegan had always been especially skilled at strategy and politics; he had always gotten abysmal scores on applied sciences.

This couldn't be Finnegan's work. It couldn't possibly be his work. Every detail of the program was intact after Jim hacked away at the edges. He couldn't break it. He couldn't touch it. And Jim prided himself on his ability to hack into anything.

After a moment, Jim took in a breath to relax. He took a step back from the situation to think of different options.

The algorithm was complex, with a circular sequence as well as cascades of multiple shootoffs of postulates; it was impossible to decode whether it was deterministic or randomized. Termination was meant to never be a possibility with this particular algorithm. There were no input tests in previous usages of this algorithm in the entirety of the computer system, so Jim couldn't scan for the previously used codes.

But what could he do?

Jim steepled his fingers.

If an input sequence from an outer source like a password wouldn't work, then no attempts to alter the algorithm through standard procedure would work. Basically, Jim could throw out the entire algorithm rulebook.

Jim grinned. He was pretty used to that kind of thing now.

So what were his options? He could do the same thing he did for the Kobayashi Maru, and create a fraction of a signature from the original algorithm, splice the pattern forcefully by the combination of a bunch of trick onslaughts to make the algorithm put up its firewall against a fake enemy. Then his piece of the algorithm would sneak in, and completely take over when the algorithm restarted. It was like an infectious virus, and though it was a bit unrefined and brutal, Jim was proud of it. However, in this situation, jiggering the entire operation would take too much of his precious time, he would need more space to directly access the boards, and he would need to have access to the mainframe, which he did not exactly have at the moment.

Besides, this code was too civilized to be attacked by a sneaky stab in the back – this code was in battle armor, packed with guns, surrounded by an army of protectorates. No way was Jim going to be able to parade in with a bunch of distractions and get away with it, and get his little assassin all the way to the boss.

He needed something way more compact, way more skillful, elegant.

He needed…

( _Hey, Spock…_)

Spock knew what he needed, it was in the back of his mind, and Spock comprehended his situation instantly as soon as Jim sent it to him.

(I suggest that you apply the "Theory of Gravity," Captain.

_Ah. _

And though I do not suggest in any way that your method was not skillful, it was indeed quite clumsy and brutal as you infer.

…_Alright, alright, enough. Don't hate_.)

Jim could hear Spock's subtle snicker in the back of his head, and blushed. He was _proud_ of that trick, thank you very much.

He typed in the idea Spock had instantly transferred to him.

It worked.

He had access to the autopilot.

Smirking slightly, the final victory, he shut it off.

Then he noticed the suddenly fluctuating patterns of the Enterprise.

Spock's shock and understanding flung into his thoughts.

He got out a short, "Shit!" before clutching onto the console to keep his head from smashing into screen from the impact.

((()))

Bones' ears pricked at the release of air that the door gave out when it slid open. He was turned away from the door, standing, glaring at that goddamn machine with a special level of concentration, but now his train of thought was broken. He shifted minutely, but not enough to see whoever came in.

"Chapel?"

There was no answer.

Bones turned.

((()))

Chapel was walking back from the women's restroom when she turned a corner, and, lo and behold, there was a body stretched out upon the ground.

Immediately, without even taking in the situation, Chapel's body responded. Her fingers pulled her medical tricorder out and her legs kneeled down next to the patient. Scanning for vitals, Doctor. Assessing risk of injuries now. Postulating cause of injuries and possible methods of first response medical care, sir.

She clicked her communicator open and requested assistance from any on-call nurses who were still doing hours in Sickbay, therapies, or the labs. There was a need for a stretcher, as well as some basic first aid equipment.

Then Chapel looked up, as she swung her communicator closed, and she saw a hand laying still in the opening leading to the Jeffries tubes.

Another one.

As she worked on the next patient, Chapel failed to notice deep gashes in the impenetrable metal that led up the entirety of the passageway.

The zigzagging wounds in the pipe reflected the slow, steady flashing of the tricorder's light, the red glow running down the slices like dripping blood.

((()))

Before he had time to recognize the Doctor, Slistas had reacted instantly to the perceived threat across the room. His thin, sharp fingers had extended and thrust forward, burying themselves in the wall behind Doctor McCoy at the neckline. There were small rivulets of blood running down the incisive silver slivers.

One twist of his wrist, and the Doctor would have been dead.

But he had realized just in time, and now the good Doctor was still alive, even though he had shallow gashes in the sides of his neck, they weren't fatal. His claws were still outstretched, stabbed deeply into the wall.

Doctor McCoy wheezed for a moment, staring at him, looking slackjawed into Slistas' eyes. Pure shock.

"I ask you to not disturb my doings, Doctor. If you do so, I will be forced to harm you." Slistas approached the situation with an implied continuation of restraint.

Though Slistas was not sure if he could possibly harm this man on purpose. McCoy had, after all, saved his life.

This statement seemed to wake the Doctor from a stupor. His blank, uncomprehending eyes snapped back into focus and flickered around, finally coming to rest on a phaser, left by another officer in a previous transport, most likely. Or perhaps it was from the stock of phasers that were kept in the transporter room for emergencies like unexpected alien transports, Slistas was uncertain.

In any case, the Doctor lunged forward, grabbed it and pointed it at him.

"Don't move," McCoy growled. "Or I'll shoot."

Slistas paused.

His fingers were still surrounding McCoy's neck on both sides.

He could kill him in one quick motion. Just one small flick.

He wouldn't get shot that way.

McCoy would be beheaded by the entrancing, elastic-like twist, and the gun would drop from his seizing hands. Slistas could calculate it to the millimeter.

But he couldn't do it.

This man saved his life. Had worked through extreme fatigue to heal him, to comfort him, to save him.

But he had to. There were important things at stake.

But he couldn't.

But he must.

McCoy was leveling the gun.

Slistas was stuck.

McCoy's eyes were determined.

Slistas couldn't move.

The ship lurched as it went into warp; McCoy slammed his head on the back of the wall.

Slistas regarded his inert form. Since his fingers were still embedded into the wall, he had not been flung unceremoniously from his place. Stabbing his fingers into the wall one hand at a time, Slistas made his way towards the platform looking remarkably like a spider.

He proceeded according to plan.

((()))

It was wrong.

Scotty knew it from the second the ship shuddered into warp.

He had to stop it.

Scotty had found a good grip on the warpcore, and so he didn't go flying when the ship went to warp. He fought the immense pressure to reach his hand back towards the switch… his fingers crawled across the smooth, unbreakable plexiglass of the core, so slowly, so very slowly, and finally he reached it.

Flick.

((()))

End of Part 11

tbc

((()))

_Post-Chapter Author's Note_: So… favorite bit of imagery in this chapter? Mine was probably the Jeffries tubes bit with the reflections. You know, the part with the gashes? Yeah. I thought it was cool. Probably unnecessary, but cool.

Oh, and by the way, by writing this story, I'm really gaining bunches of respect for almost every crew member. These people are awesome. Which moment of complete and utter badassery from one of these beasts is your fave? I'm in the mood for hearing people's opinions on all of these sorts of things.

One last thing. Do you guys have any idea where I'm going with this? I want to know what people are predicting.


	12. Of Service and Sacrifice

Warning: there's some pretty foul language in this chapter. Because of some gore. And general chaos.

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 12: Of Service and Sacrifice

((()))

It was terribly ironic.

In the haze of the chaos and smoke, Kirk and Spock both silently assented.

Ironic to the point of ridicule. If Shakespeare had written it to be so, he would have been flogged from the theatre by the masses. If Aristotle had theorized it, he would have been thrown bodily from Greece. If Dave Chappelle had joked about it, he would have been blacklisted from his own television show.

A captain grounding his own ship in battle?

Absolutely absurd.

But that was what happened. The spontaneous takeoff and stop of the Enterprise combined with the sudden halt of the _Sealion_ resulted in disaster. It was all a bit technical. Basically, the plotted patterns of the two ships had been exactly the same, as Lieutenant Sulu had purposefully rerouted the path of the _Sealion_ to the Enterprise. Since the _Sealion_ had ground to a halt just as the Enterprise flew into an unorthodox warp, and since the two ships were traveling the same path, there was only one result: the destination would be reached, but not in the way most would expect.

The Enterprise rammed the _Sealion_ into the face of Mars.

Both ships were sleeping silently in the empty expanse of red deserts, survivors crawling from the debris.

((()))

Having such an affinity for the ship really made it difficult for Scotty to see it in pieces like this. Engineering, which had been his nest, was now in shambles. The crash had dislodged innumerable bits and parts that covered everything; a man had to fight his way out with a phaser. Unfortunately, Scotty hadn't had a phaser, so he had to pull together some loose junk lying around and throw it together to make a suitable blasting machine. Actually, he was starting to like the little thing; it was a simple design, and needed far less power than a regular phaser. The only downside was that it couldn't be set to a higher setting than stun. That was fine with Scotty; he never liked setting anything to kill anyway.

But before leaving, he made sure to collect all of his tools; the ones he couldn't live without, anyway. Strapping tool belts around his waist and both his shoulders, and grabbing a satchel bag for good measure, Scotty hunted for as many helpful tools that he could fit. He ended up circling Engineering two and a half times to find everything. But find everything he did, and he made his way to the exit. He missed most of rush hour mass exodus that way anyway.

It was packed with people in the hall, all trying to push their way through, but getting nowhere. Scotty guessed that the door was inoperational, and casually made his way to the front through the use of a chipper, charismatic smile and his rank.

Nobody could see exactly what he did. Once he reached the problematic, sticking door, Scotty hunched over the controls. People could barely see his shoulders working at something for a moment or two – and then he stood up and pressed the button. The door opened. He made his way out into the hall, which was even more packed. The emergency exit terminal was near the lower levels, and that was where everyone was filing.

As Scotty wormed his way through the crowd, he caught patches of destroyed sections of wall in the corners of his eyes. He stopped to fix each one, taking the shards of metal and pasting them back up with care to cover the open machinery. He really couldn't bear to see the Silver Lady in such a state of disrepair. Gradually, he made his way to the bridge for further instructions from the Commander.

He was doing this because there was no longer any communication online, from what Scotty could figure anyway, and so he went directly to the source instead of just waiting around. He liked being direct and talking face-to-face just fine, even though communicators always tickled his engineering sensibilities with their comical flirtations, just waiting to be improved. Besides, there were a bunch of wee little systems on the bridge just waiting to be fixed.

Of course, most people were using the Jeffries tubes to climb to the lower levels, since the turbolifts were down from the shock. Scotty beelined for the closest turbolift, and had it fixed in a jiffy. Not only would traffic flow become easier, and therefore safer for evacuation, he would be able to reach the Bridge without climbing through who knows how many godforsaken tunnels.

Scotty really loved technology. It made his life so much easier sometimes. But for the moment, he had to concentrate. Right now, his goal was to get to the bridge, where Spock and the main crew would definitely be.

He had no doubts.

On this ship, the highest-ranked officers were not cowardly nor arrogant nor conceited. All of them would be right where they were supposed to be – in the heart of the turmoil, so that they could set it right again.

Scotty really liked this ship.

((()))

Shifting his body part by part, slowly and purposefully with his eyes closed, Kirk catalogued the extent of his total injuries. Currently, he could move his right arm tolerably well. His left arm – "Fucking _shit_!" – wasn't doing so hot. He peeped one eye open a crack, and, yep, it was a bit crushed by a fallen thing. Jim wasn't so sure what the thing was exactly, maybe it was a piece of ceiling. But that didn't really matter at the moment. There were more important things to worry about, like the fact that he couldn't move his legs. Or _feel_ his legs, for that matter. Looking down, he looked right back up. Yep, why don't we just not look at that right now, that would be a good idea. Too much gory stuff down there. Lots of it. Jim hoped fervently that he still _had_ legs. As long as he had most of the stuff needed for legness, Bones could fix it. Ever since Jim saw how perfectly Bones had fixed up Scotty, he believed Bones could fix just about damn near anything. As long as he had the basic structure to fix… but why don't we think of something else. Like the rest of the injuries. Yeah. Okay. So. Arms, legs, what's next? Head? Yeah, the neck moves well, and I can see wreckage and smell burning and hear everything falling apart and taste my own blood and for the most part feel pain, so my basic senses are still functioning, so that's good. My mind might be pretty fucked over by this point, but hey. It'll pass. Torso? Heart's beating, some gashes, nothing too major. And I still have my balls and dick, so that's wonderful. It would suck if they got chopped off by some flying shrapnel or some shit like that. But the bad news? Um, losing a shit ton of blood, an arm is crushed, my legs are unresponsive, I'm in a ship that's fucking falling apart and is probably going to explode pretty soon if it hasn't already, and goddamn it, I have no idea where the fuck Finnegan is and I have no way to defend myself if he comes along. Oh, and the Enterprise just fucking _crashed into a planet's fucking __**side**_, which is a _helluvva_ bad thing. So bad I can't even _think_ about it right now.

Fucking _shit_.

((()))

After fighting his way through the throng, Scotty finally got to the main deck. His first instinct was to check all systems for operation status with a flick of his eyes. What he saw wasn't all that great normally, but it was fantastic under the circumstances. Some general lightboards had been cracked on bridge mid-right, which was basically superficial, like a cracked computer screen. Though they would have to be replaced later in case of more cracks and eventual breakdown, the machinery still functioned and, for the most part, was legible.

Uhura ran up to him after just seeing him, with grime and shock on her face.

"Scotty! The communicator is down! We can't get it online!"

Apparently during the crash, Scotty mused as he stepped up to the thing, bent down, and worked at it with his hands, the signals completely froze. Connect a node here, tune in a signal there. Bingo!

Scotty stepped back with a grin. It always gave him a little burst of joy to see a part of the Enterprise come alive again. She worked like a charm when you treated her just right.

"Ah've fixed it, lass."

Uhura's face stretched in surprise before relaxing in appreciation and thanks. She grabbed him by the face and determinedly planted a kiss on each cheek before sitting in her chair and fiddling with the controls, putting in her earpiece.

Scotty moved on. The science station had been affected by the same trigger that had thrown off communications and was also quite physically damaged in terms of the controls, though not in the deeper and more important mechanical functions. All wounds on the science station were basically artificial. A young science officer was staring dumbly at the fizzing controls with a blank look on his face, blood dripping down his forehead. Scotty clapped a hand on his shoulder and cheerfully informed him that he should probably go see the good Doctor. The wee lad happily complied. Scotty got to work on the station, and in a few minutes, had it down to a few options. He chose the one that involved him, the station, and a nice little wrench. Then, it was finished. He screwed in some quick little new improvements he'd been thinking of for awhile and then was on his way to the next station.

He crossed the main part of the bridge to the sensors, and saw that nothing was the matter with them. Well, that was a relief. Next was the security system, which was partially operational. Scotty fixed that in a jiffy. Thankfully most systems were online already. Then he went to Tactical, which was also partially damaged. Hm. This would be a bit difficult, because the mechanical aspect was almost untouched, but the data had been erased and the computer system had been significantly altered into jibberish. Also, the phasers, torpedos, shields were all separately damaged in themselves, so he would have to patch teams directly to the sites. Thinking quickly, Scotty typed in some basic tactical codes for the foundation of the system and then set up an algorithm that delineated the varying offshoots of each type of tactic. Hopefully, the computer would refill itself with all needed information. They would be able to restock on tactics later in repairs, and Scotty was pretty sure that the commanding officers that ran the ship would remember most tactics and be able to use them without a database anyway. But just to be sure, he got that little program running.

It hadn't been much of a shocker to Scotty that Commander Spock hadn't called him to attention yet. At the moment, Spock was probably devising the next move, and figuring out the particulars of each crewmember's actions in his plan. Scotty glanced over to see him reclining on the captain's chair, eyes narrowed on the blank, cracked viewscreen, both hands woven together, crossing his mouth and alighting, just barely, on the tip of his nose. Scotty finished up Tactical before finally moving to Helm.

"Lieutenant Sulu, what'se situation?"

Sulu glanced back at him before rising from his place and giving him full access to his station. "I can't localize the trouble, sir. None of the controls are in operation."

Scotty thought for a second, knowing that either every single one of the controls was individually damaged or that they were all affected at the same area, the only cross-section where all of the control systems intertwined. Since the odds were astronomically low for each control circuit to be individually damaged, Scotty went for the other option. He opened the panel with a flick of his wrist and a cutting beam, and then laid facedown on the hard floor with his bag of tools next to him. Searching for the connector circuit with a flashlight and a flux coordinating sensor, he found the little bugger quite easily, though it had been misplaced and damaged in the crash. Pulling out his decoupler, Scotty manually worked the circuit back to perfect condition. With a few sparks and flickering of lights, when Scotty flipped the switch, Helm control was back online.

Scotty turned to Navigations. The wee lad who always firmly believed in Mother Russia was there, looking confused and slightly singed as he continued inputting different altercations of the same function, receiving no reply from the machine he worked on. Scotty didn't even have to take a step, he just bent down and opened up the metal exterior panel and got working on the responsive controls section of the circuitry. It seemed as though a rogue shard of metal had broken off the back wall of the panel and sliced through quite of bit of circuitry, which meant quite a bit of detail work on reparation. Bit by bit, he got through each separate control, and each time he finished one, he heard a triumphant whooping in Russian, complete with enthusiastic beeping from the panel controls going haywire as the lad excitedly pressed them all. Head and shoulders completely buried in the station, Scotty snorted into the machinery.

Scotty slid from the Navigations machinery at last, and quickly fused the panel back on to the station. A quick pat of affection on the belligerent station and Scotty moved on. What was left? Well, there was the cracked viewscreen. It wasn't working at bloomin' all, so Scotty figured he'd take a crack at it before Commander Spock called him to attention. It was a simple operation enough, and Scotty even got to rid the screen from those cracks real quick before Spock was ready for him.

"Lieutenant Commander Scott." Spock was standing now, hands clasped behind his back.

"Yessir, Commander Spock, sir." Scotty saluted his commanding officer with his laser welder and a smile.

"Update on the Enterprise's conditons requested."

"Well, sir, Ah jes' fixed all th' controls on th' bridge. Life support and all uther such functions are normal. Howev'r, all weapons are currently daewn, bein' tha' they're all individually damaged. Though warp engines are currently daewn as well because o' th' malfunctioning or malproportioned Heart, th' impulse engines are jus' fine. Shields went daewn temporarily because of th' crash, but they're all foine an' dandy naew, sir."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. Your next task will be first to stabilize the condition of the transporter. We must beam the Captain back as soon as possible. Medical assistance should be in the transporter room to receive him, as he is injured. Contact the bridge if this is not the case. After this task is accomplished, please proceed to the next most important ship function, in this case, the weapons systems. Use individual discretion for the next task after this is completed."

"Yessir." Scotty set off again.

Spock turned to his other officers.

"Lieutenant Uhura, contact Starfleet Headquarters immediately, and inform them of the collision and crash. Ask for any assistance possible and, in particular, medical staff and engineering staff. We are also attempting to detain a criminal by the name of Seamus Finnegan, a Starfleet officer, on the charges of kidnapping and harming a Starfleet Captain, so inform the Council of an impending hearing."

"Yessir." Speedily, her fingers flew over her controls, inputting all the correct frequencies in half the time it would take anyone else. Messages like this were the easiest to send, because this was what Uhura did all the time. She had too much practice in inputting these emergency frequencies. With a flourish, she finished the last touches on the last urgent transmission.

"Inform the Mars Coalition of our unseemly arrival and explain the circumstances, vaguely if possible. Also, send a request for the Mars facilities closest to our location for further assistance."

"Yessir, sending messages now, sir."

This took even less time, because the frequencies didn't have to be exceedingly politically correct, just formal and desperate. Beep. Sent. Done.

"Lieutenant, continue monitoring frequencies. When there is a response, inform me."

"Yessir."

Spock turned to Helm and Navigations.

"Navigations, set course straight for Starfleet Headquarters Starbase. Helm, be at the ready for takeoff by means of the highest impulse setting when I give the order."

"Yessir." Said the two officers in unison.

Spock sat down in the captain's chair once again, slinging one leg over the other. He pressed a button to communicate directly with the transporter room.

"Officers on duty in the transporter room, please respond."

He waited for a second. Nobody responded.

Quickly, Spock contacted three units to go to the transporter room. Two security teams to scope out the scene and be present for Finnegan's arrival and an extra medical unit to salvage any survivors. Scotty would be arriving shortly, so there would be no need for an extra engineering team.

Now all he had to do was wait.

((()))

Scotty flipped his wee communications device open as he briskly made his way to the transporter room. He had sent a three-man team to handle the job just earlier today, and was quite buggered out that nothing had been properly done about it. There were going to be some severe repercussions for the team that couldn't even fix a wee transporter malfunction in the space of a few hours. Hours, for god's sake! Scotty wouldn't have minded nearly as much if the team hadn't been able to complete the job with only twenty minutes or some tiny scrunch of time like that, but _really_, two hours and no progress? It was like they were children playing around with their decouplers! Scotty needed a nice Scottish whiskey. He sighed. Nobody was responding.

Perhaps he would give a nice demonstration after this whole mess to enlighten his engineering teams on this sort of thing. After all, it wasn't their fault that they had such a malfunctioning transporter; that thing goes down too much as it is. Perhaps Scotty would have to look into it a bit more closely after this. Perhaps the fault did not wholly lay with the team.

Scotty knew that sometimes his fellow engineering officers could be a bit less enthusiastic than he, but he knew that they weren't stupid. He had seen for himself how smart they all were. They just needed a bit of training, that's all, and they'd be shipshape and ready for any more emergencies. Perhaps Scotty would begin to train each of his officers individually and then put them into specialized groups for shipwide emergencies. Starfleet had trained all of Scotty's engineers well, but only in the basics of every shipwide function. That simply wasn't good enough in this type of situation; though the officers knew the basic methods of controlling ship functions and fixing common technical mishaps, they were all newly instated officers from the Academy and had no real experience to build something from scratch, like Scotty could. Though they had superficial knowledge of the ship, they needed the essentials. Scotty would teach them that, and more. He would build the ultimate engineering teams.

But first, he would fix this finicky transporter, eat a sandwich, fix the ship's weapons systems, and then drink some whiskey.

He rounded another corner.

((()))

Jim had used his remaining arm to free his crushed legs, but was having serious trouble freeing himself from the heavy piece of ceiling that had mangled his left arm. Trying to level it off with one hand was doing absolutely nothing; he needed a wedge, something to manually lever the damn thing off. Desperately, he whipped his head around in search of something suitable.

All he could see was smoke, destroyed panels, and blinking controls, excluding his own bloodied and battered self. There was nothing for him from the chair he was trapped on, nothing for him on the control panel… Perhaps he could use a broken off piece of panel…? Jim reached out with his free hand and scrabbled at the scrapmetal there, looking for a loose shard. He felt smooth metal, with a gash in it here and there. Nothing for him to use…

Then he had an idea. A horrible, horrible idea. So horrible, it just might work. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Jim came to terms with it, began to overcome his complete and utter terror of such a thought. He locked his gaze on his mangled legs.

His right leg was bloodied, but he couldn't see anything particularly wrong with it; no terrible openings there. His left leg, however, had a white bone poking out from it, stabbing through his skin and gaping at him. Perfect. He grit his teeth.

And wrenched his bone from his leg.

((()))

Scotty whistled as he finally reached the transporter room. He'd seen a multitude of broken things on his way here, but he knew he had to focus on his direct orders. His priority was the transporters. The Captain's life was probably at stake. It usually was. And Scotty would never let him down.

The door wouldn't open. Scotty paused, and the whistle fell into silence. That wasn't supposed to happen. He noted the extreme gashes embedded into the metal. It looked like someone had literally ripped the door open. And he could only think of one person who had the ability to do something like that with the marks that were left.

Slistas.

With his trusty plasma torch, Scotty blasted the door down in seconds. Though he hated to see the Lady broken into pieces, sometimes it was necessary. Like when a possible felon was roaming around on her, and possibly causing serious mayhem aboard her. He was pretty sure the good Doctor had been in here to heal the Captain when he arrived…

Through the smoke and torchlight, Scotty couldn't make out a single thing.

He whipped out his plasma extinguisher and put out the plasma flares that glowed blue in the dim light. Smoke still filled the room. Scotty's hand rifled through his three belts full of tools, looking for anything that might help him. Ah. There was something. He strode over to the life support duct and manually forced the smoke from the room by way of what someone old-fashioned would call air conditioning.

He looked around again to take in the situation.

His jaw dropped open.

((()))

Jim's body was wracked with pain once again, overcome with trembling. Despite that, he gripped in his hand his own left tibia, dripping with rivulets of blood. His gaze hardened, his back straightened, and his trembling stopped. He would get through this, dammit. He'd already ripped out his own goddamn legbone; nothing could possibly compare to that, mentally or physically. He would survive. And he would get this damn hunk of metal off of his arm.

Grinding his teeth, Jim slid the bone underneath the huge chunk of metal, trying to find an appropriate place to shift its weight. After a few seconds, he found it, and the rocklike mass groaned as it budged from one side to the other. Jim flung the remainder of his weight onto his bone lever, and –

It rolled off. It crashed into the viewscreen in front of him. Jim's entire body relaxed, and his eyes closed in relief. A step, he'd taken a step. It was only a tiny step, but it felt so good to know that your arm is no longer crushed under a metal boulder. After basking in his momentary triumph, Jim knew he had to move. He couldn't stay here and risk being found by Finnegan; there was a small chance that the bastard was still gunning for him. He'd be killed if Finnegan was on the move. _Fuck_ no, he wouldn't let that _fucking_ happen. Wouldn't give that bastard the _satisfaction_. He had something to _live for_, dammit.

He needed to move. He needed to _move_, he needed to _**move**_, _fucking goddammit_!

((()))

When the smoke finally lifted, Scotty had turned to see a huge cavity in the side of the transporting room wall, as if the entire wall had been blasted. It was almost as if someone had taken a humongous ice cream scoop and decided that metal-flavor would be delicious today and taken their fill of the transporter room. His stare traveled from the gash, which resembled a perfect empty half-sphere, to its neighbor – a diminutive thing next to such a monstrous hole, but still. It looked like something, something very reminiscent of a skull, had been pounded into the wall until the wall had started sinking back into a bloodstained pit. The trail of blood led to the floor, where there lay a prone body. In medical scrubs.

Scotty knew it was the good doctor.

But he couldn't believe it.

His knees hit the floor, and he flipped open his communicator, staring at the Doctor, unable to rip his eyes away. Even though his head turned, his eyes stayed focused on the body in front of him.

"Commander Spock, immediate medical assistance is needed. Doctor McCoy is severely injured."

A clipped response came back to him. "There is already a medical team on the way, but I shall specifically call for Lieutenant Chapel to prioritize."

"Thankee kindly, sir." Scotty flipped his communicator closed. His body was still frozen in a kind of surreal shock.

He had never imagined the good Doctor injured. It boggled him to no end.

He crawled over to the transporter terminal, his gaze unfocused as he worked on unclasping the access panel.

A spark shot across the circuits and caught his hand.

"Ow!" Scotty exclaimed, sucking on his singed thumb.

The Lady had never hurt him before.

((()))

The space to get to the cockpit had been tight enough when Jim had first squeezed through it. It was even tougher now that he could only maneuver his body with his right hand, his head, and part of his torso. Plus, he had to make sure he had his tibia was clipped on properly. No way in hell was he dropping it somewhere; that tibia was going to be put properly back into his leg later, thank you.

He had clipped it to his belt, readjusting a piston cord to tie around the bloody, slippery thing. He had to pull a few sailor tricks with one hand, but he got it successfully secured after some fumbles. What else was left on his belt? He had a phaser, which was a relief. And he still had that interesting alien saber, which was awesome. So he had some weapons to fight with if he was found by a certain someone, which was a definite plus. Though he only had one hand to use them with.

Hm, now that was an idea… Jim pulled the sword handle out of its sheath, and pressed the button. The sword slid out. Its green tinge glinted in the dim light. Jim stabbed the tip across his body into the wall, and dragged himself out of the chair. With a grunt, he jerked it out of the metal sheet. He continued to stab and drag until he had finally reached the door. Using the knife-tip, he pressed the release code into the door from the floor. The door issued open.

Stab, drag, wrench. Stab, drag, wrench. It became a pattern. Jim repeated it in his head, put a nice cute little musical tune to it. He reached another door after quite a few refrains, one that he somehow dimly remembered was an open barracks room. That meant beds, privacy walls, bathrooms, the whole works. That meant he had ample resources to hide, clean himself up a bit, make a few traps, and waste some time so that he could get the hell out of there by transporter without Finnegan killing him.

He knew that chances were, Finnegan would follow the bloodstains here. But he could bet on another ten minutes before he arrived.

((()))

Finnegan prowled the halls like a wild animal in the hunt for its prey. He had sustained little injury due to the crash, having hit only a crate of spare blankets in the collision's turmoil. He was relatively unharmed. But the small cut he had gotten on his forehead let his blood drip down his face, to his nose, let him smell it. He always went a bit crazy when he smelled blood… And this was no different. Fuck whatever the higher-ups had ordered him; he was going to kill Jimmy-boy right now. He was too dangerous, too incorruptible, too resourceful. And he was injured, right now, manning the craft. And he had had the balls to trap Finnegan in his own storage room.

Grinning evilly in the dark gloom, his face lit only by the blinking glow of his red phaser, Finnegan advanced towards the cockpit.

The door opened after a pause – and the tiny space was empty, except for a heap of junk, of spare parts and strewn about the pit. The ship was ruined for good. Another reason to kill Jimmy. Finnegan's grin stretched into something feral, baring his teeth.

But… something about this situation was suspicious to him. Finnegan took a closer look, flipping out a flashlight.

There was blood everywhere.

A manic laugh left his lips, triumphant in the knowledge that his enemy was badly wounded. He shone the light to follow the bloodstained path from the chair to the wall to the floor – he was standing exactly where Jimmy had dragged his dying body. Smirking, Finnegan got on one knee and dragged a finger through the wet blood. He licked it off, smiling, laughing. "So close, Jimmy boy," he breathed. "But it's all over now."

He cackled.

((()))

End of Part 12

tbc

((()))

_Author's note_: ugh, Finnegan is SUCH a creeper. Hate him.

Questions for you! Which character makes you laugh the most? Which is the coolest/most badass? Which is your personal favorite? Does the gore/action/other thing ever shock you? What about it?

Do you like having such long chapters when you know you could get more chapters faster if they were half as long? I could pander to my readers in this respect if the majority were in favor of this idea…

Review so that I can get the _oomph!_ to keep on typing at late hours of the night. Please. It really helps. ._.(o.o)._. (bowing) I get tired and lonely, and the reviews give me reason and focus and all that.


	13. Of Traps and Trysts

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 13: Of Traps and Trysts

((()))

Jim was holding up tolerably well, considering that he only had the use of one arm, his torso, and his neck to create himself a safe haven in the barracks of the _Sealion_. After trying to alleviate most of his pain and bleeding with customary first-aid he found in the bathroom, Jim was raring to go.

There wasn't much to think about; most of the work was just moving this thing over there, and that thing over here. Building a mini-fort was like breathing to Jim; surrounding it by a maze of beds was equally easy. He had enough layers of broken off pieces of metal and solid chunks of the bulkhead to craft his ultimate hideaway, which he placed at the heart of the fort, which was slightly off-center to the heart of the maze. Just in case, he set up a few fake forts that, when triggered, unleashed deadly traps. The maze itself was set up by layers of turned-over beds, too high to pass over and too tough to blast through. They were also light to move, and easy to permanently fix in place with the help of a phaser. These beds were perfect as maze barriers.

The traps were by far the trickiest to set up and drag away from unharmed; Jim made sure that each one was essentially unique, even though all were made from basically the same materials.

One was one of those classic traps Jim had always seen in older cartoons: there was a piece of bait placed strategically in the loop that would tighten around the victim's ankle and pull him upwards once he took the bait. Now, Jim had a very select few options to choose bait from, but decided on a damaged phaser; even if Finnegan got his hands on it, he wouldn't be able to use it. The loop, instead of rope, was an extremely useful piston cord, much like the one Jim already had at his belt holding up his tibia, but made by a different manufacturer. Clearly it was not Starfleet issued; Jim had had some problems assembling the trap because the cord was clearly hostile, and would respond to any heat by means of sharp spikes popping out all along the length. When he thought about Finnegan on the receiving end of this particular trap, Jim decided that no amount of trouble it took assembling, it was worth it.

The second trap was more complex, and took more time in assembling than Jim had expected. He supposed that having only one hand really cut down on time. This one was, in effect, a mantrap. It encased the sumbitch in the pit left by the crash in the floor. Jim had almost fallen in it, and had had quite a few ideas from his near downfall. First, he grabbed a few circuits and assembled a basic shield emitter module to cover the hole. He then threw some metal panels on top of the force field. Setting up a motion/pressure sensor up to the machine, Jim made sure that if Finnegan took a single step onto the middle of the pit, he would fall to his injury or death onto the spikes below.

The third trap was a premeditated explosive. Jim set up a great many bombs around the lining of the floor, the walls, and even managed to get a few on the ceiling in a specific area. He connected them all, so that if one was triggered, every single bomb would go off and hopefully take out Finnegan, if not from the explosions themselves, by then the shrapnel or the falling debris. These bombs were extremely sensitive to light, of which Jim made sure he had none emitting. He thought that if Finnegan ever walked past this particular section of the maze, he would be critically wounded at the least.

As for his actual fort, Jim made it so that the maze didn't actually intersect with it. Instead of actually giving the prick a chance to logically find him, even the tiniest chance, Jim rigged the game. He let Finnegan _think_ that he would be able to get to Jim if he figured out the maze, when in truth the maze was a farce, and there was no end to it. Except in the traps Jim had set. Ready to live in his fort for a few more hours to a few more days, Jim made sure to fill up his resources in food, medical supplies, any extra objects that might pass for weapons, some blankets and clothes, the works. He got the last necessary resources from the extra storage and dragged himself back to the center of the maze, checking over his work as he bit down on his bloodstained blanket.

There, all was finished now. Jim hunkered back into his sanctuary, closing the maze behind him. He had taken approximately thirty minutes to set everything up, and he had surmised that Finnegan would at least reach the cockpit in ten.

There was still one more issue to work out: his injuries, which were obviously quite severe. Having pushed himself this far, Jim knew his body desperately needed attention or it would quite literally start falling apart. Groaning with fatigue, Jim grabbed his medical kit and went to work, dabbing the worst places with disinfectant. Then, he applied thick creams to halt bleeding and cover the wounds effectively so that no stray bacteria would end up in there. He could barely look at his left leg, and the gaping hole where his tibia had once been, but he knew that he had to cover it or risk serious infection, not that he was assuming he wasn't already exposed. After that, he had to patch his left arm back together into a nice arm-shaped mass, with tiny chips of bone sticking out and bloody gore in every direction. After that, Jim cleaned off all the blood. He finished by bandaging the skin firmly, but not too tightly, basically all over his body. Blood collected in the gauze, soaking through, even though he had cleaned himself multiple times and had effectively stopped most of the bloodflow. He would change bandages in another ten minutes or so. There. That was all he could do with his limited knowledge of medical procedure.

All that was left was to wait. Jim's head fell back, and for a moment he rested.

Then he heard the barracks doors issuing open. Jim's eyes flicked open.

Finnegan was here.

((()))

Adrenaline shot through Spock like wildfire, and his body thrummed like a warm engine. It was all he could do, with Jim in his head, to keep still and school his facial features into a calm, normal expression. Surely once this was over some fine-tuning would be necessary for their mental bond to allow a more comfortable safety catch onto their connection. Perhaps the stress of a first bond coupled with Spock's low metal defenses and Jim's haywire emotions at this time all contributed to the negative effects experienced. But Spock didn't have time for that at the moment.

He had to, quoth Jim, "play politics."

The messages from Starfleet that came in at first were all technical procedure, simple messages that basically said, 'we received your message,' 'we're thinking about responding soon after we talk about it,' and 'how exactly did this happen?' Spock knew that their answers right now would determine the judgment of the council, and so he was exceedingly careful in his word choice, even more so than usual. He was not about to stain the prestige of Jim, the Enterprise, or anything connected with the situation. Except perhaps that of the traitor Finnegan.

So Spock gave a concise yet informative response of his own that desperately called for assistance in the form of, perhaps, another starship or two. The crewmembers needed transportation back to Earth, the Enterprise's brig was not functioning properly to detain Finnegan, and the remains of the Enterprise needed to be brought back to the space station. Impulse engines could get the ship off of the ground, but a tractor beam from another ship could get the injured ship back in no time at all with little danger to the crewmembers aboard needed for the impulse.

Starfleet did not respond immediately. Another ten minutes later, they sent a message that said, 'we're thinking about what you said, and it's very interesting.' Spock sat down in the captain's chair and checked the ship's status again. The bridge crew calmed down in the momentary lapse in action. Everyone did their normal jobs. Spock's limbs were tightly wound over the smooth surface of the chair, and his forehead was furrowed in either stress, pain, or thought. Everyone assumed it was thought.

Then the Enterprise received the first response from the Martian Coalition. Spock shifted his focus. The Martian Coalition was perfectly outraged that a Starfleet vessel would crash land in the beautiful Martian deserts, a famous tourist site for hundreds of years, and that the Martian Coalition was supposed to allot precious resources to help clean up the mess. Spock assured the representative that Starfleet would reimburse any expenses paid for the assistance given to help the survivors. Besides, if the Coalition decided to refuse to extend aid, the bad press would be humiliating. Irritably, the Coalition finally decided to come to their aid.

Spock's tension relaxed partially. One obstacle had been systematically passed; the Enterprise would begin to receive assistance in approximately ten minutes from the local teams from the planet's best base facilities. However, there was still one more obstacle to face: the ruling of Starfleet. This determined everything.

"Commander Spock, Starfleet Council hailing signal received."

Spock paused for a millisecond before responding. He prepared himself, his mind flashing through all steps taken for the operation, filling in the details, logically concluding causes and effects, keeping in mind all previous decisions of Starfleet high command, and concluding on all possibilities for Starfleet's choice of action in this particular situation. "Open the channel, Lieutenant."

"Yessir."

The viewscreen flicked on.

The entire council sat around their oval table, sternly taking in the blackened and bloodied bridge and its similar crew.

Spock stood proudly before the captain's chair, his arms behind his back, looking unflinchingly and unwaveringly into the onslaught. It hadn't been the first time the Enterprise had called on the High Council, but it was the first time Spock had ever needed to take them on without the Captain.

Though, of course, the Captain was there in spirit.

Spock stood a little straighter, and his eyes narrowed.

((()))

Chapel had finished setting necessary parameters for the limited supply of nurses to follow. They were all diligently working on either transporting the injured to Sickbay, treating onspot to the critical, treating in Sickbay, or fetching more medical supplies to those who were on the onspot duty. Of course, she had allowed for shift switches and breaks for everyone. In fact, she had just sat down to her very own break after working non-stop for what seemed like an eternity when her medical emergency beeper went off.

Without a moment's hesitation, she answered. "Nurse Chapel here."

"This is Commander Spock. Nurse. It is imperative that you immediately aid Doctor McCoy. He is injured. Currently, his position is within the transporter room."

"Yessir, right away, sir!" In haste, Chapel grabbed all of her essential supplies, before stopping to make sure she had everything conceivable. After a pause, she opened her desk to grab a few more items that were rarely used but had their charms. You never knew when one of these was going to come in handy, and Chapel thought that she would take no chances with the Doctor's life. She certainly wasn't going to make a foolish medical mistake on the very doctor she aspired to be like! Besides, she thought of him like a family member.

She slung the tricorder over her body, and her medical bag over her shoulder. Then she set off for the transporter room, as fast as her high heels would allow her to go, dashing with all the speed her legs could muster. There were a few obstacles to overcome to reach the transporter room; there were a few levels of Jefferies tubes to climb, and some of the connecting tubes were severely damaged. Using her surgical laser cutter, Chapel managed to cut just enough for one person to squeeze through debris to reach the next expanse of tunnels. Her uniform got a tiny tear up the side, but that was all.

Down the next flight, there was quite an awkward moment when Lieutenant Kingsley, an engineer who got his fingers burnt and mashed by circuitry almost constantly, was coming up the tube, presumably to get to the mangled tube above her. Not only was it extremely close quarters, they had to squeeze their bodies past each other; his breath ghosted over her lips. Chapel blushed. There was a moment when they both stopped; she thought of the rip in her uniform; he had certainly seen it. She blushed even more, and though she hadn't been able to meet his eyes at first, now she couldn't look away.

But she really needed to move, to get down to Chief Medical Officer McCoy. He was in serious medical emergency, and here she was, flirting. Shifting her weight, looking at her feet, Chapel kept moving down the tube.

And if Kingsley had looked a little disheartened, well, they were in the middle of a shipwide emergency. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't spend all day mindlessly gazing into his eyes and playing footsie.

As she thought about it more, she realized that it was really odd; usually, Chapel refused point-blank to become in any way romantically inclined towards any member of the crew, and in the middle of an emergency no less! Shaking her head, Chapel turned her attentions towards more important matters.

Like saving her Chief Medical Officer, for a start.

((()))

Stepping into the hangar, Finnegan knew he was in the right place. Not only did all the blood trails lead here, the floor was covered in scarlet. Layers of the stuff covered the ground, the bottom layers dry and the top layers still wet. That was only what he could see directly in front of him, because the rest of the room was swallowed by what seemed to be a fort, made of what seemed like infinitely many propped up beds.

Smirking, Finnegan tried to kick one of the beds over. Hopping up and down, holding his throbbing toes, Finnegan cursed at Kirk under his breath. Melding the beds to the floor, he would.

Flicking his gaze back and forth, Finnegan found an opening to Kirk's annoying maze. It was tough to find, hidden behind a curtain of dangling circuits and sharp metal points. But Finnegan cleared a path for himself and headed on in to find and kill the bastard.

He tripped over a cord.

((()))

Scotty was still manually sawing off those stinking blighters of circuit casings when Chapel arrived on the scene. After fighting with the sparks of Silver Lady richoting off from the decoupler, he had given up on trying to break apart the outer layer in an elegant fashion. Right now, Scotty was trying to ease her through a tantrum, as he ripped away covers from the console in an unorthodox fashion.

He had never treated her so roughly before. Maybe it was because she was disobeying him so rebelliously, but Scotty was never so annoyed with her jealous behavior until now. Hands that had previously caressed her every nacelle were now tearing off her console covers with an animalistic ferocity, almost. Well, not _that_ angry. Scotty assumed that, perhaps, it was the burns on his fingers that made it seem like he was being a bit more rough than he actually was, because of the black, dried blood crusting itself in between his webbings along with the pain influenced his movements to be jerky and slightly spastic. As he worked more and more, so did his performance suffer.

Every so often, his glance would flicker from his circuits and alight on the Doctor, lying motionlessly across the room. Blood had continually spread from his head wound into a puddle that Scotty had tried to halt in vain. There was a ripped piece of some cloth Scotty had blindly grabbed and ripped into long, thin shreds wound around the Doctor's head, but it didn't seem to be doing any good. Scotty had never been very good at applying any sort of medicinal aid, except to machines. He supposed, theoretically, that a living being was just an extremely intricate machine with chemicals and living matter making up its parts, but then he'd never really studied the interactions between the specific compounds and resulting reactions nearly as closely as those made by metallic machines.

This was one of those times when Scotty regretted not taking that comparative engineering and medical classes back in high school. It might have come in handy. Maybe he could read up on it when this was all over and done with, assuming they all survived. He lamented his medical ignorance again, contemplating his burning fingers and the body over there.

The Doctor. It wasn't the body. The good doctor wasn't dead.

Another spark surged from the console and zapped Scotty on the knuckle.

"Daemn!" He brought it up to his mouth and sucked on the burn. After a second of thought, he returned to his toil on the Silver Lady. Hacking away at her covers, Scotty made progress little by little, even if She wasn't in the mood.

The door issued open. Nurse Chapel rushed into the room with two very heavy-looking bags, and quickly assessed the situation.

"Chief Engineer Scott – !" This was just standard good manners, acknowledging the other person in the room. Chapel said it distractedly, her full attention really on the wounded man lying on the ground.

"Aye, milady, Scott here."

"Commencing medical procedure on Chief Medical McCoy now."

"Aye, understood."

Fiddling with the primary connectors, Scotty burned his hands again as his eyes drifted towards Nurse Chapel working over the Doctor's inert form.

"Oaew!" He cried. "Infernal blighter! Son of a licentious muck-eating pullet!"

Chapel glanced over her shoulder with one eyebrow raised.

((()))

Jim grinned maliciously when he heard the screams of pain from his hideaway. Certainly it was Finnegan, with all the crap pouring out of the capturee's mouth about how he was going to kill Jimmy-boy for this, just you wait. Jeez, even his insults were cliché. Like he was some ham actor from the 20th century or something.

When a silence fell, Jim held his breath, straining to hear Finnegan rustling about. A shing! of metal cutting through the air, and a thud of Finnegan hitting the ground. Jim could visualize exactly what was happening; Finnegan had a knife in his boot, and he had grit his teeth against the pain to reach up and grab it, only to cut himself free. Damn. He had escaped the first trap. At least a leg or two was damaged by the Piston Cord of Sharp, Retractable, and Malevolent Spikes. There's always a silver lining…

Jim started at the sound of a phaser going off, and he saw the red light diffuse atop his highest barrier.

Finnegan had set his weapon to kill.

His gaze hardening, his jaw tightening, his remaining fist clenching, Jim tried to stop his body from shaking with rage.

Finnegan might hear.

Jim closed his eyes and tried to center himself.

Spock.

He focused on Spock.

What was he doing?

He was sorting through his mind to perfect his responses to the Council. Jim swelled with pride and unconditional support.

Sending a constant flow of charisma and strength through the bond, Jim got a brush of thanks in reply.

((()))

She took a deep breath and prepared herself, slowly slipping on surgical gloves, fingering her choice of tools.

Chapel secured McCoy's head, made sure it couldn't move by shooting his neck with numbing muscle relaxant, and then his jaw. Using a primary scanner, she went level by level through the damage, first the damage to the external skin, then deeper and deeper, each layer more and more complicated, especially when she passed the cracked skull. After she saw the cracked skull, she took out another scanner to keep a close eye on the progress of the sharp points of calcium within the brain, and another to keep tabs on the rest of the body, more specifically the spine, as Chapel went to work at surgically removing the splinters of skull from McCoy's brain.

After removing the last piece, she sighed in relief. Just then, the alarm on the body sensor went off with a vengeance. She started violently, grabbing it with her spare hand to read the results. Ah, it was nothing. The sensor had picked up the flickering of pain from McCoy's nervous system when she had accidentally nudged that very region with her surgical tool while retrieving the skull piece.

Carefully snapping the correct neurons together, Chapel finished the hardest part of the operation. Now all that was left was to stitch up the external damage. Her shoulders relaxed minutely as she took a moment to go through all of the steps in her head once again. She was not going to mess up a single part of this; Chapel was determined to be absolutely perfect and thorough.

With a glance, she caught Scotty staring over at them from behind the console. She hid a small, sad smile at his obvious distress; she had never seen the Chief Engineer so flustered, and certainly never seen his fingers in such a terribly burned state. He was the one who discovered the Doctor and reported it; that was certain.

Another interesting note: Chapel knew that Scotty had always been the quickest worker with machines Starfleet had ever known. And right now, as of this moment, he had been trying to fix the same transporter circuit for the past twenty minutes at least; ever since Chapel arrived, anyway.

It was suspicious.

_Very_ suspicious.

At any other time, she would have probably be filled with fiendish glee. But at this moment, this moment of uncertainty and obvious emergency, she couldn't bring herself to do it if she wanted to. It was just sad. Terribly, terribly sad. Chapel bit her lip, and her eyes welled up.

She never wanted to see her lover like this.

She would probably break, too.

((()))

Spock's response came tumbling from his mouth, as easily as honey. It was perfection in its address, its material, and its conclusion. There was no other report he had ever made that was as astonishingly spectacular. Not only was his rhetoric as sparkly as glitter, Spock also managed to describe the bravery of the crew, the ingenuity of the Captain, and the dastardly behavior of Finnegan perfectly, without inferring even in hindsight such claims as the incompetency to be kidnapped and to let such a mad traitor on board in the first place.

After he had finished, Spock regarded his audience. The Council members were all open-mouthed in some sort of shock, before the Admiral at the center stammered out, "Thank you for your concise report, Commander, we shall discuss the options available and send aid as soon as possible."

Spock inclined his head.

The screen clicked off.

Spock sunk down into the command chair. In relief.

((()))

Chapel was still grimly assessing McCoy's scan results when he woke up.

Blearily, his left eye, still halfway acquainted with the floor, slowly cracked open. Bones smelled blood in the air, the injured must have been lying around untreated for over twenty minutes or more, giving enough time for the blood to dry and give off odor as new blood continued flowing from the wound.

Bones' eyelashes drifted back and forth, swishing back and forth, flicking past the pool beneath him, collecting droplets of blood in his lashes, which shone like new rain, sliding down back into the scarlet reservoir, weighing down his eyelids.

All he could see was red, through his closed eyes. Light was shining mercilessly, cutting through his body's defenses and penetrating his feeble shield of an eyelid.

With another zap of Chapel's numbing medication, Bones went back under.

Chapel slowly worked on his scalp with her dermal regenerator.

((()))

Jim glowed in Spock's relief, and his body relaxed into the bloody blankets wrapped around him. He was careful, though, to not make a sound. There was no way he would help Finnegan find him, no way in hell.

If it had been before, though… Jim thought about how he used to be, before Spock, before the crew, before the Enterprise, before Bones. Before, he would have. He would have let Finnegan find him, he would have baited him. Jim knew exactly what would have happened; he would never have left the supply room, he would never have climbed through the vent, following Spock's advice. Jim would have tried to fully engage Finnegan in some sort of macho display of arrogance, tried to duel him to death.

He would have put his life on the line for his pride. And he probably would have died. But why would he be here in the first place if he didn't have Spock and the crew and the Enterprise? He would have been dead long ago.

Spock had personally saved his ass on so many missions he might have lost count if he hadn't had to do all that paperwork to get Spock all those damn awards. And every single member of his crew was so incredibly devoted to him, and he was right back, that there was never any question of sacrifice; he had always depended on them, and they on him, during tough times. And the Enterprise herself, the Silver Lady, was still as dependable as ever, even when she was halfway destroyed.

Before Jim had Bones, he had had nothing. When he had a friend, he had himself. When he got his crew, he was more than his own selfishness. He didn't just protect his crewmen because he was personally attached to them, like he did with Bones; no, he protected each and every one of them because he loved them unconditionally, without any slant in his own personal favor. Because he was their captain, and they were his crew, because they trusted him, and he trusted them. Because they loved him, and he loved them.

And whenever the Enterprise lost a man, Jim would personally grieve.

And he knew that whenever he put himself needlessly into danger, his crew suffered the same worry that he did when he sent crew on dangerous away missions.

So Jim had stopped doing irrationally dangerous things, unless the situation called for it, of course. Unless it included saving another crew member, for example. But it was a change. Not a small change, exactly. It was the addition of so many changes he had underwent throughout his time as captain, so many new responsibilities, so many new methods of working out problems, so much. Jim had changed. He was no longer an inconsistent, inconsiderate, innately selfish being anymore; Jim was the Captain. He was the Captain, and his crew followed him.

Jim had always been a genius, he had always had the gift, the talent for leadership. But he had never had the right mindset, exactly; he was always too selfish, too forceful, too shut inside, that nobody would follow.

Now he had something to live for, something important, something pushing him forward, letting him strip himself of all selfishness and help him reform.

His crew.

Jim was going to live for them, he was going to _live_, no matter what this bastard Finnegan had to say about it.

Even if he had to cower in this hole he'd built for himself, waiting out the tiger. He would not attempt some foolish stand at bravery, because he was above that now.

And Spock was there, to comfort and help him through it.

And it should be over any time now.

Whenever the transporter is ready.

The Enterprise should be beaming him out right about now.

He heard an unsavory sound.

Finnegan's laughter.

And it was coming closer.

((()))

Scotty once again reigned in the impulse to drop the circuitry, throw his decoupler to the floor, and dash across the bloody room to the good Doctor's side. Shake his shoulder, or summat like that. Make sure he was still fully functioning.

He watched the nurse's hands slowly draw across the wounded's forehead, halting the bleeding with new skin, layer by layer. Another spark from the circuitry cut into his hand again, and he yelped. His brow furrowed in consternation, and he brandished his wrench like the finger of a disapproving parent. "Naew, Lady, summat must be dun abaewt yeh, wha' with yer bad behavior an' all."

He kept watching until McCoy's head was fully covered with skin again. Not a wound in sight. But there was still blood covering the Doctor's face, uniform, and the entire floor. Scotty's usually rock-steady hands were slighting shaking, still.

Nurse Chapel pulled out a stack of towels or summat like that, and began to carefully wipe all of the blood away from his face. She lifted him with the crook of her arm, turned him over, cleaned him off. Something about the scene, to Scotty anyway, was eerily, scarily domestic. Maybe it was the whole wiping a walloping amount of blood away from his face was the disturbing part; it wasn't the usual thing wives wiped off their husbands' faces; you'd expect a bit of grime, or some sauce from some messy food or the other.

But maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was the whole bloody thing. Maybe it was the fact that the good Doctor had bled so bleeding much that it needed five flabbergasting towels to absorb all of it.

But then the Doctor twitched in response to Chapel zipping him a bit of something through one of those fancy medical shots, and he groggily opened his eyes. She started working on something else, maybe putting some blood back in that Doctor's arteries.

Something tight in Scotty's chest relaxed. His fingers loosened around his decoupler and his wrench; he looked down at them for a moment, and something clicked.

Humming, Scotty's fingers flew into the heart of the console and danced elegantly through the infinitely complicated circuits.

((()))

"Chief Engineer Scott, beam-out is necessary at this point in time."

"Aye, Commander, th' repair is nearly complete. Jes' need a few tweaks. An' don't we need a Security team for the kidnapper, then?"

"Yes, a team should be arriving momentarily. Disregard any superficial repairs, Lieutenant Commander. Make all haste."

"Aye, sir."

((()))

Damn, thought Jim frantically. Damn, he figured out my maze, he figured out that I wasn't at the center, damn, he's coming closer, I know it, he's got clamps or something, some sort of device he can use to get over the beds, damn, damn, damn.

Taking a logical and silent breath, Jim tried to follow Spock's example and control his erratic emotions. Even if Finnegan had somehow gotten around his ingenious maze, Scotty would beam him out of here in no time. Yeah, in no time. Spock had just relayed to him that all the transporter needed was a few 'tweaks,' and a Security team needed to arrive, and all that. Then, Jim hoped, then, he would be safe.

Bones would be there on the other side, with his evil hypos, caustic bedside manner, and sincerely concerned expression. He would be there, and he would make everything fine, he would patch up everything, like this whole nightmare hadn't even happened. Like Jim had never had to wrench off a bulkhead from his unresponsive arm, like Jim had never had to rip his bone from his body to use as a lever. Ha, all of that would be gone.

Then Finnegan spoke. He didn't raise his voice at all.

Like he knew exactly where Jim was, like he knew how eerily close he was.

He was right outside the wall of Jim's shelter.

"Hey there, Jimmy boy…" The Irishman whispered.

Scraping the metal face of the tall, sharp, and jutting scraps surrounding Jim like a teepee made of eruptions of sheets of thick serrated knives, making a circle around the whole thing with the tip of his weapon, Finnegan was looking for a weak point.

And he found one. A small crevice, allowing a sliver of darkness. With a twisted grin, Finnegan stuck the point of his phaser to the hole, before whispering, "Game over, Jimmy," and firing a blast.

Not only did he get in another shot, Finnegan's gunshot blasted a sizeable chunk out of Jim's last safe haven. Greedily, Finnegan shoved all of the smoking metal out of his way, giving him a way to maneuver most of his upper torso into Jim's stronghold.

He was inside, his hand was reaching in toward Jim. There, it was there, going straight for his throat. This crazy bastard wanted to strangle him. Jim was waiting, phaser pointed straight at Finnegan's heart, even with a smoking, singed hole in his remaining shoulder. Jim's phaser was shaking despite his efforts as Finnegan's hand closed around his neck.

Just as Jim's eyes began to glass over from the pain, the hand curling around his neck, and the inability to fight back, he pulled his trigger with his remaining strength. It hit Finnegan's knee, and he howled in pain like an animal. Staggering a bit, but not relaxing his grip, Finnegan took the gun in his other hand and slowly, with malicious eyes, lined the phaser up perfectly to Kirk's temple.

Swirls of white, skittering at first, then gathering strength, enveloped them both.

The shock returned the light to Jim's eyes, as Finnegan started in confusion and then astonishment. His grip slackened, and his eyes began to dart around as he realized the consequences; his chin trembled.

"Now it's _really_ game over, bitch!" Jim grunted smugly, and chopped the gun from Finnegan's tremulous hand right before it dematerialized.

The last thing he saw made him give up a shit-eating grin. It was the look in Finngean's eyes. That's when he knew. Really, really knew.

He was safe. He had made it.

Triumphantly.

As thoughts flew back and forth in his head, transporting from one place to another, on the brink of the limbo of nothingness, all Jim could think about was his crew. He was going back to them. He was going back to Bones, back to Scotty, back to Uhura, back to Sulu, back to Chekhov, hell, even back to Giotto. But most importantly.

Spock.

As his body broke into tens of trillions of particles in a cloud of gold, Jim closed his eyes and smiled.

((()))

Stabbing through the pilot controls with his fingers, Slistas controlled the makeshift shuttle he had created from the walls of the transporter room by pushing his energy into the circuit workings. Inputting a very specific, familiar course, he set off for the colony.

It repeated in his mind like a mantra.

_Colony XI._

His eyes pulsed light, narrowing and focusing, widening and unfocusing, switching colors from pure white to yellow to red to white to green.

_Colony XI._

He ground his sharp, metallic teeth, letting an awful scraping sound fill the air, like the sound of fingernails on chalkboard.

_Colony XI._

He remembered everything.

Now, now was the time for vengeance.

((()))

End of Part 13

tbc

((()))

_Author's Note:_ Waaaaaah things are just heating up! You thought it was all over, didn't you? Haha, I've tricked you! No, things are just about to get good here in a minute! We've just barely finished the second climax of this story, and there are many more to follow until the end of this arc alone! Kekeke, I feel so amazingly evil.

Did you guys get really freaked out at any point during this chapter? Any moment when you were just like, "OMG OMG LIK JIM IS GONNA FREAKIN _DIE_ GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE JUST _DIE_ FINNEGAN YOU _BASTARD_" kind of moments? Because I know I for sure as hell did. The entire time I was writing it, actually. That's probably why I took so long to get this finished; I had to do this in tiny installments over a period of a really long time because of all my internal torment. Yeah.

And Behold, the tiniest bit of progress in the Scones for you all! :)

By the way, how awesome is Chapel? I feel like she's really learning a lot from Bones, and she's getting to be more and more capable in my eyes. Like, dude, she totally learned that bone-plucking trick thing from Scotty's surgery, don't you think? And what's this new moderately OC guy she might be crushing on? Didn't Chapel like Spock? And didn't she have a fiancé? Yeah, yeah. Well. Artistic license. Spock can't be the only guy she crushes on. Anyway in the new movie we only saw her for a moment and she hasn't had any interaction with Spock AT ALL and well she would have known that Uhura and Spock were involved and would have backed off and blah blah blah. This is my take on it. And come on, like she wouldn't have dated a few guys on board. She's a beautiful gal, and she _does_ have needs. I would get pretty lonely on a starship with no boyfriend, too. And, well. I'm not really a Spock/Chapel fan in the first place. I saw _her_ liking _him_, but… I don't think for a minute that it was EVER reciprocated. Wow, this note is really freaking long. Guess I'll wrap it up.

Review, and I shall write faster. That's not a threat, it's a law of nature.

(Plus, god_damn_, I have more than 6000 words on this one. BOOYAH!)


	14. Of Flatlines and Family

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 14: Of Flatlines and Family

((()))

Kirk awoke in Sickbay. Everything was dark, but he knew the smell, the feel of the bed, the displacement, the soft whirring of medicinal machinery.

Experimentally, Jim rotated his shoulder, feeling the place where the wound used to gape from Finnegan's blast. There was only smooth skin; he flexed, and the muscles bulged like they always had. Jim wondered at the perfection of Bones' work; he even felt the smallest of hairs growing back on the replacement skin. No other doctor Jim had ever had before was that thorough.

He turned his attention to his other arm, the one that had been crushed and useless. He could feel it, flexed his fingers, felt the crook of his elbow bend with his other arm. Yep, still working.

With a second of hesitation, Jim floundered with his hands down to feel his legs. First his right leg, which seemed to be fine. Then the other. With a start, Jim felt a tough covering the bottom portion of his leg. There seemed to be metal supports beneath the rough, bulky cast. This was the leg that he'd wrenched a bone out of… Hey, it still moved pretty well, and Jim was sure this was just some new method Bones thought up to get him to heal better.

After he checked out all of his major wounds, Jim tried to think of any others he had sustained, but since he wasn't in pain anymore, he couldn't remember. So he yawned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His stomach grumbled, and so he set off for the replicator across the room. With a start, he realized that he was walking with a limp.

Shrugging it off, Jim had had worse. Besides, it was only temporary.

On his way back to his cot, Jim called for lights, 75 percent. His toast with raspberry jam was then illuminated, and he saw that not only was the toast burnt to an unrecognizable crisp, but the jelly wasn't even raspberry. It was like, blueberry or something. I mean, it's unnatural, isn't it, to smear blue goop onto your toast? Jim thought so.

Abandoning his sad, pathetic excuse of a breakfast and picking up a stylo and PADD instead, Jim got to work on updating himself on the ship's actions since he'd been under and all that jazz. Of course he was going to get updates from Spock and all the other commanding officers once he was back on duty, but he knew that Spock was sleeping, so Jim didn't bother to call him.

He was just getting to the finer points of the written report by the Council on the aid sent to the Enterprise when a door swished open.

Bones stumbled in, looking half-asleep and utterly exhausted. "I thought I saw a light," Bones grumbled when he saw Jim. "Dammit, Jim, go back to sleep, it's past three in the morning, dammit."

Smiling, "But I have so much to catch up on!" Jim indicated the PADD with a wave.

Sighing, Bones went back into his office. Jim thought he was going to just go back to sleep or something, but within a minute Bones was back. With some coffee in each hand.

He sat on the cot facing Jim, and handed him one of the coffees. "Might as well. You need a stimulant right about now anyway, though usually I don't approve of caffeine right after major surgery. I s'pose it's less invasive than a stimulant shot… D'you want a brief now, or later?"

"Well, I mean, if you're up for it. You look like you just came back from the dead, Bones."

"By saving your ass, yeah. Dragged myself through hell to retrieve ya, kid. Might as well call me Lot. Just don't look back."

Jim chuckled. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

Bones sipped his coffee. "Nah, just fatal." Looked back at Jim. "If we hadn't gotten you when we did, you would have died of asphyxiation or internal bleeding or infection in another ten minutes, maybe."

Jim put down his coffee and PADD, holding his head in his hands, curling down onto his lap. "Jesus, Bones."

"That fucking bastard," muttered Bones, his eyes screwed up in anger. "Not only did he fucking kidnap you, he damn near almost killed you. Looks like he beat on you for over twelve hours for the first day alone… Jim, wasn't this guy your friend from the Academy? What the hell is wrong with him?"

Jim let out a long breath, still looking down at his toes.

"Well…" he began.

((()))

The worst thing was, they had started out as friends.

Jim had always been a loner before, but here at Starfleet people flocked to him because of his fresh attitude, stunning good looks, and amazing intellect instead of running away. Once they got over the initial shock, of course. Jim was, for once, popular, he was the cool kid. He knew it was superficial and none of these people were really his friends, as smart as they all were, as fun as they all were. None of them really understood him, nor did they try to. Jim was popular in the fact that he was infamous more than the fact that he was a great person, he knew that.

The only sincere person he had met here, really sincere, and wasn't completely disgusted by him (there were quite of few of these people, who thought he was the most obnoxious person in existence) was Bones on the shuttlecraft. After actively seeking him out by breaking into the relatively unguarded living quarters and schedule systems, Jim pretty much forced the issue and got what he wanted: a best friend.

But Bones wasn't really all that up for crazy parties all the time, and he certainly wasn't going to constantly pander to Jim's every need. So when Bones decided to stay in for the night instead of gallivanting through the local nightlife, Jim went out alone.

It was on one of these nights, when Jim went out alone, that he met Finnegan.

Yeah, Jim had never really stopped starting fights. Especially in bars with a lot of people who knew him and particularly hated him. Like Cupcake, for example.

Now, Finnegan was always up for a bout, no matter the reason for the fight, so when four guys were beating on Jim, again, what could he say, this was almost too familiar, this had already happened, he guessed they just hadn't learned from last time, Finnegan jumped in on Jim's side, and together the two of them took down the Security officer wannabes. Until they got beaten to a pulp themselves.

And that was that. They became friends. In the Main Sickbay, they had beds right next to each other, and when they first awoke, seeing each other across their cots, both of them in bandages, all they could do was laugh.

Jim wondered later how such a good beginning could end so incredibly awfully.

((()))

"But how did it happen?" Bones grumbled.

"I'll get there, I'll get there," Jim said, mock-patiently.

But he didn't get there. The door opened before he could get out another sentence, and both the Captain and Doctor were so completely distracted that they completely forgot about the entire thing as Spock walked in. Bones rolled his eyes as Jim and Spock started that whole eye thing that they did.

"I'll remember this, Jim, don't think you'll get out of this one," Bones grumbled as he slouched back to his office, waving over his shoulder without looking back.

He sure as hell didn't want to see or know what exactly was happening in Sickbay at that moment in time, so he shut the (hopefully soundproof) door. Falling back into his chair, which squeaked the tiniest bit as it swiveled.

"Them and their goddamn mushy eyes," Bones mumbled into his flask of mysterious whiskey. Hell, he didn't even know if it was whiskey, its smell was so foul. That's when you know, Bones thought philosophically. That's when you know you shouldn't drink something: when even a master surgeon can't identify its basic alcoholic makeup from smell alone. He downed the rest of the flask in one long draught. Definitely not whiskey.

Lolling his head, leaning so far back his Adam's apple stretched his skin tightly over his neck, tiny sprinkles of tears squeaked out from corners of his clasped eyelids, and they ran, no, danced, no, tinkled down Bones' temples in sparkly little grooves illuminated by the low overhead lights.

It was from the drink. From the _drink_.

Bones wiped the side of his face with a sleeve without craning his head, just laying there, staring at the ceiling.

Damn, was that whiskey strong.

Hand moving over his face now, first pinching his nose, covering his eyes, then gliding over the gristly five o'clock shadow on his chin. This next part was what confused Bones the most.

He felt like shit, he hadn't slept, he was running almost solely on fumes, he was drinking his sorrows away, he missed his daughter, he hated his ex-wife, Jim had almost died again, the Enterprise had run into a fucking planet, he missed his daughter, he had gotten a severe concussion and his skull cracked, there was a potential murderer on the loose somewhere in space, Finnegan could get away with it, and he missed his daughter.

Why the hell was he smiling?

"…I need coffee, dammit."

Going to the replicator, his hands drumming on the counter waiting for the hot water and the coffee beans to appear, his mind alighted on the funniest things. The way Spock would say, 'Captain,' with that look in his eye when something hellish had gone down on the bridge, that was when Spock was at his most emotional on active duty. A kind of desperate yet confident dependence, a sort of belief that Jim would make everything okay. The way Jim would always call on Spock first in Sickbay after a particularly dangerous away mission, even if he had been the only person admitted. Completely obsessed with one other person's existence to the point where he utterly disregarded his own. Even more than Jim obsessed over the crew.

A multitude of things rushed to mind, some things more telling than others. But really, the most telling thing of all was the normal routine. Image after image of normal day every day on the Enterprise, everyone together, but those two so connected beyond anything else.

Bones had known it in his bones longer than he cared to admit.

Much longer.

Bing! His coffee was ready. Startled out of his thought train, Bones grabbed the coffee and stalked back to his chair, plopping down, sipping. As he gave himself a second, curling his fingers around the cup, shifting back into the chair to a more comfortable position, fluttering his tired eyes half-way closed, letting the steam from the coffee drift into his every pore, Bones let himself give a small smile.

He had always been a hopeless romantic at heart.

A laugh came bubbling out, no, more like a chuckle that shook his shoulders, accompanied by some more tiny little drops of tears dotting the crinkles around his eyes.

For the first time in such a long time, Bones was crying because he was happy.

((()))

Scotty blinked a tear out of his eye, his finger smarting. "Oeaw!" He experimentally stuck the digit into his mouth. Bad idea, really. He spit it out, along with the dreadful tasting ointment covering it.

Doing a suture on yourself was a lot harder than he'd expected. Scotty had never really been all that keen on learning the trade in the medical arts, so to speak, and so he'd never really gleaned the basic skill set, per say.

Because everyone needed to learn life-saving procedures at least once in their lives, and Scotty was certainly not being directly influenced by the fact that he had been utterly helpless in a certain recent situation to help the injured. No, that would be absolutely inconceivable.

Flicking his hand back to the PADD and checking over the procedure once again, then studying the old surgical textbook thoroughly for all chemical reactions that would be caused versus the ones he would have to induce, Scotty picked up the medical tricorder and medical laser scalpel that Nurse Chapel had so kindly bestowed upon him.

"Ah, so _that's_ it, then," Scotty breathed triumphantly after finding the wrong stitch, fixing his mistake avidly. He had always been quite an energetic student.

When the laser hit his hand once again, the blue light ghosting over his messily attempted suture, Scotty's hand froze.

Then his whole arm seized up, in a fit, his shoulder locking unnaturally, his neck's blood vessels working furiously as they bulged from his skin, his face turning bright red as he struggled to breathe. His entire body was seized in tremendous pain, wracking his body in seizures of agony, his heart, his heart again, it was burning, it was exploding.

Scotty fell to the ground of Engineering, surrounded by a maze of towering machines.

((()))

Uhura hadn't left her station since the emergency rescue mission had begun. Here she was, sitting on the bridge, hectically connecting channel after channel to communicate what needed to happen when to all appropriate stations at all the appropriate times. And she also needed to keep an ear on intership communications, along with any possible news from Starfleet base. After all, the most important component in successfully tractor beaming a damaged ship a few lightyears in distance was communication.

Sighing, Uhura sat back for the spare minute she had to sort through her thoughts.

Spock had left his station some two hours ago, which disconcerted her flow of concentration even now. Why had he left? Spock was never one to freely leave his post at any time during his scheduled hours. Yet he had done just that.

Probably to check on the status of Captain Kirk, thought Uhura absentmindedly, as she pressed a unique sequence to open the Starfleet secure channel. Nope, no new messages from the base or from the two alongside ships dragging the Enterprise across the sector.

A red signal started beeping ominously on Uhura's station. Annoyed, she flicked off the warning signal with aplomb.

Uhura's fingers flew over her PADD, tapping the edges of her fingernails smartly against the touch screen, to check exactly what the warning sensor meant. There needed to be a replacement in the mechanical aspect of the pinpointing sensors. There; sent directly to Engineering.

The minute was up; it was time for Uhura to check to amount of inflow shipwide that she had to relocate and send outside the ship. The only messages that got sent directly through Uhura were the ones that needed to go outside the Enterprise; all others could go straight to their intended stations. However, in times of crises, there were masses of messages that Uhura had to plow through to send. Most were crew messaging their families; others were all work-related messages about repair needs or resignations or injury reports or things like that.

But Spock had left his post.

To see Kirk.

And he still wasn't back.

Uhura's delicate hands paused over her station before she plugged in her earpiece and went to work, trying to blot out all other thought with what was directly before her.

((()))

Stumbling back together, both of them completely exhausted, Sulu and Chekhov made their way down to their deck. They were lucky that they had the same hours, the same deck, and their rooms were right next to each other, because they ended up limping to bed after terribly stressful shifts together most of the time.

Both of them were currently functioning at less than optimal capacity. Slowing to a stop before their turbolift, Sulu broke the silence.

"God, today was bad, huh?"

Chekhov paused to think for a second. "Ya, especially bad."

Sulu took a breath. "For a minute I really thought – "

" – Zat ze keptan vas dead?" finished Chekhov sadly. "I sink eweryone did."

The turbolift opened, and there was someone else already inside. Taking a few lurching steps in and calling their deck number, Sulu felt like their extremely private and personal conversation had been rudely interrupted by this other officer's very presence. Chekhov followed Sulu's steps, his eyes unfocused and sad.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Sulu caught the look. He threw his arm over Chekov's shoulders and didn't say a word.

Neither did Chekhov.

At the end of the ride, they stepped out together from the turbolift and made their way down the hallway. Every step was awkward and they tripped over each other's feet in their fatigue, but they finally made it.

"Hey," Sulu muttered. "See you tomorrow."

"Vant a drink?" Chekhov offered, his eyes already half-closed from his body trying to manually shut him down.

Sulu grinned weakly. "You would… I'd really love to, but… I'm kind of dead at the moment, so… Probably not a good idea…"

"Vat do you mean?" Chekhov seemed revitalized at the very thought of consuming alcohol. "Wodka eez alvays a good idea."

Against his word and his will, Sulu was tugged into Chekhov's room. Not that he really minded; he liked spending time with his fellow bridge officers. Pavel Chekhov especially.

The door swished shut behind him.

((()))

Scotty woke up in Sickbay, completely disoriented. He stared at the ceiling, smiling at it, thinking that it looked just absolutely dapper there, with its new paint job. Whoa, that light there is just so bright. So incredibly bright… And look at that, a hanging piece of ceiling there, it's so fitting, such a nice decorating touch, really…

He jolted out from his nonsensical thought process when he suddenly felt the urge to get his pack of tools and fix the broken ceiling. This time his eyes blinked with focus, and he recognized his surroundings. He pushed himself up with his elbows.

When he found himself being pushed roughly back down, Scotty noticed someone else was there. A muttering growl alerted him to the exact location of this other person, and his gaze slowly traveled from the ceiling to the hands pressing down on his chest. Ah, they were gone by now. But then, where had they gone? To the left? No, nothing was to the left except for more hospital beds. Then, to the right. Yes, indeed, something was indeed there. Scotty wasn't sure what he was looking at for a second, but focused mightily upon that blue thing, and finally came upon the Starfleet logo emblazoned on the chest – aha! 'Twas a Starfleet uniform! That meant that a Starfleet officer was aiding him. Thankee kindly, sir. But no words came from Scotty's mouth. He cocked his head slightly, and his brow furrowed in innocent confusion.

"Yer under a series of medications, that's why y' can't talk yet."

Scotty's head floundered for a second before swinging up to find the mouth who talked. He found a face, attached to the blue Starfleet uniform, and the lips were moving and sounds came out. Focusing for another moment, Scotty ascertained the identity of the other officer. It was the good Doctor. Scotty smiled goofily.

"You'll be pretty damn near loopy fer another half hour." The Doctor stood up suddenly, or at least suddenly according to Scotty, and moved further along the bed to get to a plate of tools.

He picked up a device, a… what was it? Scotty recognized its composition, he'd fixed a million of those bloody things before, it was… a hypo. Yes, a hypo.

"Here's the next set of medication. Dammit, Scotty, this is one hell of a condition you've got, huh?" Focusing on refilling the hypo with some chemical Scotty hadn't the foggiest idea about, the Doctor paused in his admittedly limited monologue.

"But goddammit, you shoulda come to me right away, the first time you had a heart attack. Dammit, Scotty, even you should know that having a heart attack is not just another day on the Enterprise…" The Doctor shot the hypo into his neck.

Scotty's head dropped back on the pillow.

"…And dammit, it's a bad sign of an enlarged heart after serious reconstructive surgery." Bones sighed and pinched his nose to calm himself down. Some of these goddamn officers would rather die from preventable conditions rather than admit having any sort of weakness that affected their duties onboard the Enterprise.

"And really?" Bones snorted as his fingers ran over Scotty's rudimentary stitches. "A do-it-yourself suture on your own hand? Scotty, this is just ridiculous. Even if you _are_ pretty good at it, I can't allow you to operate on yourself. That's bullshit. I'm taking away any connections you have to get medical tools so you can't do it anymore."

Bones sat at his by-patient chair, hand still resting on top of Scotty's.

A moment of silence, before: "Dammit, man, this is the second time you've come into Sickbay in the past month for a serious condition… You need to be more…"

Bones paused. It really wasn't Scotty's fault he had gotten hurt; he'd been mauled by Slistas, and that's where all his current health problems rested. So Bones couldn't really tell him to be careful, because Scotty's 'care' really hadn't had anything to do with his injuries. What would be a better word, then? Safe…?

Deep in thought over this mysterious word, looking deeply into Scotty's face as if it would harbor the answer, the noise of the door swishing open startled Bones into action. He stood in panic, snatching his hand away, and look accusingly at whoever had opened the door to his Sickbay.

It was Chapel. She was there for the morning shift. Frozen in the doorframe, with a funny, knowing smile on her face, Bones knew something was up.

He stalked off gruffly to his office.

"Morning, Nurse," he grunted.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said happily in response.

Embarrassed past all other conceivable methods, Bones hid away in his office from Chapel's growing smirk. He knew that it was extremely unprofessional to be talking to an unconscious patient the personal way he had been going on, and it wasn't even Jim he'd been talking to! Chapel knew that Jim and him were good friends from the Academy, so that had always been suitably agreeable, but dammit. It was just plain awkward for someone to walk in on a private moment like that, especially between two officers of high rank. It felt like he'd been caught at doing something he shouldn't have.

And to be talking to that other unconscious officer? About all these things that he hadn't had to say to the man, really. All these things that he should have just waited to say when Scotty was awake. Bones wasn't one to talk to unconscious patients, except to Jim and occasionally Spock when they'd done something more stupid than usual on an away mission. The two of them were like Bones' family, though, and that sort of thing was to be expected. Talking to an unconscious patient was like a desperate attempt to reassure yourself that the other person was still responsive, that they were still okay. Bones rarely did it, and even more rarely actually noticed that he was doing it. So this particular revelation, that he had been talking to Scotty's unconscious form on that cot, meant that Bones was accepting more and more people into what he considered to be his family.

Which made it all the more embarrassing that he'd been interrupted. And that Chapel was the one who saw it. She would know exactly what was going on.

Bones grumpily sat in his chair with his arms crossed. Hmph. Hadn't been _his_ fault Chapel had walked in on them. He started angrily typing up a report on Scotty's health.

He fell dead asleep in the middle of it.

((()))

The Enterprise finally reached Earth, tugged along by two other starships into port. Finally, after what seemed like years, the crew relaxed into their quarters for one more night, unable to sign out to planetside quarters because of their fatigue.

Only the skeleton crew remained, well-rested from their last off-shift. The bridge was sparse, but all the main positions were still filled. Another communications officer took over for Uhura, another Security detail replaced another squad from the brig guarding Finnegan, and another post took up Engineering. New squads of engineers beamed on board to continue repairs every half an hour.

For a moment, the crew of the Enterprise let out a long breath, allowing themselves to relax in the comfort of home.

((()))

End of Part 14

To be continued

((()))

_Author's Note_: Late again, I know. I deserve to be brutally tortured. But let's look on the bright side – new Scones development, more character introspection, more Sulu and Chekhov appearances, life is good. Well, this chapter is such a stress reliever for me, it's so peaceful… relatively, of course. I mean, shit still goes down with Scotty's whole heart failure thing, but hey. There wasn't a big huge fight scene, so as far as I'm concerned, it was calming and winding down the tension. Get ready for a helluva chapter next time, with Finnegan's trial, more explaining about the Academy, and other epic shit!


	15. Of Trials, Truth, and Testimony

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 15: Of Trials, Truth, and Testimony

((()))

Kirk looked upon the Starfleet courtroom grimly. The high, sloping ceiling, the vaulted chamber for judges, the rows of polished wood. Stately attire, dress uniforms strutting around. It was all so very familiar, so formal. With a flourish, he limped grandly up the center aisle to sit in the front row of witnesses.

Less than twenty four hours ago, he had been knee-deep in his own blood in an enemy ship. Now he was at the trial of the man who had done it all to him. And Kirk was intending on forcing the truth out of Finnegan while forcing him into jail for the rest of his life. He set his jaw firmly as he promised himself.

He came up to the front of the courtroom, past the rows full of people waiting to see the person who had wrecked their flagship. Waiting to see what would happen to him. The crowd was jittery and loud, full of movement as Jim cast his eyes over the masses in search of someone he knew.

"Jim, it's about damn time you showed up. I was beginning to worry you'd sleep through it all."

"Bones! Fancy seeing you here." Jim clapped him on the shoulder and took the empty seat next to him.

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta present all the goddamn medical information in this trial. Might as well be me." Actually, Jim knew that Bones had done so many hours over the past week that Starfleet had requested _another_ medical officer to go over all of the medical facts and resulting implications for the trial. Something about overwork and an officer's need of good rest. Bones had had none of it and came to the trial anyway.

Shaking his head, "Sure, Bones, sure. Just make sure this time, you sleep for over a week when everything's calmed down. Seriously, they'll start docking the funds for engine repairs just to scrape together enough for your overtime paycheck, and then where will we be?"

Bones rolled his eyes. "Goddammit, it's like nobody here has ever heard of a twenty-four hour ER hospital."

"Well, I've seen the show, does that count?" Jim smirked, ruining his portrayed look of innocent curiosity.

"Wait, the one from over five hundred years ago? I don't believe you. You haven't watched any sort of thing, I'm sure of it. At the least, you're just guessing that there's some sort of medical drama about an ER hospital because there were so damn many medical dramas back in the day of 2D television."

"Got me pegged, Bones. Oh, look who it is – Pavel Chekhov!" Coming from across the room after spying his captain, Chekhov waved enthusiastically, dragging a tired-looking Sulu behind him. "And Sulu too! How's it going?"

"Vell, keptin. Ve haff just arriwed, vondering iff ve could help een any vay? Eef not, ve vill be here anyvay, so…"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure that if there's any need, they'll call on you to help." Jim noticed with a flick of his keen eyes that Sulu was in serious pain. "Sulu, you okay there? I've got a Doctor here who could help…" Jim winked at Bones, who hid a grin with a disgruntled sigh and reached for his medical bag he kept on him at all times.

"What's yer problem, Sulu?"

"Well, I just got this terrible headache… Can't stand looking at bright lights…"

Bones whipped out a hypo in a second. "Got just the thing – come over here, it'll just take a sec – and there. Good to go."

Sulu straightened up immediately and smiled radiantly. "Thanks! I feel so much better."

They went and sat down after another minute, then started chatting among themselves. Jim looked at Bones in wonder. "How did you know what was wrong with him just from that? He had headaches and couldn't look at lights?"

Bones harrumphed. "He had a hangover, knew it the second I looked at him. He came in with Chekhov, the Russian kid? Chekov keeps a store of heavy vodka in his room at all times, and those two are pretty close. Their rooms are pretty close together too, and they get off shift at about the same time. I'm guessing after all the stress from last night they decided to unwind a little with some help from Chekhov's vodka. Sulu doesn't hold liquor at all either, it's a Japanese genetic thing he's complained about before that I checked out, and so he would've gotten completely drunk within a few sips of the stuff, no wonder he's got a hangover."

"Whoa, Bones, you pick up on a bunch of shit I don't even think about."

"Yeah, well, comes in handy every so often. Mostly when we get another mission from hell and nobody tells me shit until everything's over."

"Next time I'll quiz you on my schedule when I'm lying on the operating table."

"You do that, I might decide not to operate. You'd be in too good of a condition for something as _invasive_ as that."

"Aw, don't get angry." Jim clapped him on the back. "It's all in good fun… But seriously, do you pick up on everything? _Every_thing?"

Bones shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I try to keep tabs on everyone… I don't think I'm _that_ good, I still have pretty sizeable gaps…" He glanced sideways at Jim. "But _some_ things are so incredibly _obvious_ that even _I_ couldn't _not_ pick up on it."

Jim blushed. Vividly.

"Greetings, Jim, Doctor McCoy." Spock seemed to have materialized behind them, making them both jump.

"Spock! Nice of you to drop in. Thinking of running the whole show here?" Jim smiled up at him, eyebrow cocked.

"Actually, Captain, I am indeed, as you say, running the show. I am the prosecutor in this particular case."

Bones whistled. "You have a degree in law, too?"

"Yes, Doctor. Several of them."

"How did you get this position, exactly? Hook up with the right people?"

"No, Jim, I simply applied for the particular position last night and received my orders this morning. I was decreed by the court to act as prosecutor, as a spokesman for both the Enterprise crew and for Starfleet."

Jim whistled this time. "Must have been that awesome speech you gave to High Command when you were explaining the situation. You know, that one time."

"Indeed, Captain." Spock noticed movement off to the side, probably seeing someone beckoning him to begin to prepare his papers, and turned back to Jim. "I am to sit in my place now. I shall call upon you for testimony as to the events that transpired on the _Sealion_. Please prepare yourself for that."

"Thanks. Good luck."

"Luck will hardly be – "

"Just do your best, then." Jim smiled, Bones smiled, everything about it was all smiles. Even Spock's lips twitched ever so slightly.

"Yes, sir."

Spock took his position as prosecutor.

Jim kept glancing around to all the rows of people. Who else besides himself and Bones would be called on to speak? Who else on the Enterprise held enough rank and know-how that Spock himself would call on them for further information?

Well, Sulu and Chekhov were sitting over there. And Uhura was walking down the row – wait a second, Uhura was joining Spock at the prosecution table! She grinned at Jim's dumbfounded look. Huh. Well then. Spock's eyebrow raised a bit, playfully, and Jim pointedly looked back at the crowd to find Scotty or Giotto. He didn't see either of them.

Jim knew that Giotto was probably still doing Security rounds or some such thing, he knew Giotto had loads on his plate after such a fiasco. But Scotty had just been cleared from Sickbay, and had nothing else to do but wait for the Enterprise to open to crew again so he could stash himself away in the throes of Engineering. Jim had completely expected him to show and was kind of thrown at the fact that he didn't see him there.

"Hey Bones," Jim whispered as the hall quieted, "Where's Scotty? Still recovering?"

Bones grunted, almost completely silent, concentrating on the proceedings at hand. Jim elbowed him, only to get a, "Dammit Jim, not now," in response.

Ah, the trial was starting. Or rather, important people in uniform were appearing to serve on the jury, and everyone wanted to watch them march on in a grandiose manner. Jim would have rolled his eyes, but he found that in spite of his usual attitude towards processionals like this, he was extremely interested in who exactly would be judging the fate of Finnegan. So he focused intensely on each face that came through the small side door, and found that he knew each and every one of them. Not personally, but through either working with them or notoriety or something like that. All of the jurors were famous within Starfleet, being top ranked and held within the highest esteem Starfleet could muster for its officers.

This intrigued Jim. Starfleet was giving this trial its very best people to be jurors, allowing Spock to speak for Starfleet as prosecutor, and allowing a vast amount of people to watch the proceedings. Usually a trial was cut down to the bare minimum of onlookers: the people called to speak in the trial. But for some reason, when the charges included treason for a Starfleet officer no less, not only was the venue of the trial large enough for an entire starship crew to watch, there were faces across the room that Jim was beginning to realize had much more significance than he had previously thought.

Across the room, Jim spied Klingons and Romulan ambassadors. Not sitting next to each other, surely, but they were both there, among the countless Starfleet officers in uniform. He pondered this new discovery with a grim dash of a mouth before turning back to the trial.

The presiding member came out from the back room. It was Admiral Fayden, a man renowned for his previous works of diplomacy in interplanetary disputes; most famously, he had ended the Federatin's dispute with the Saurians and had helped sign them into the Coalition of Planets. Jim and everyone else here had studied his diplomatic talks in the Academy.

Softly, ever so softly, Jim whistled under his breath. Starfleet was really pulling out all the stops, getting all the big celebrities to serve for this trial.

Then the next step proceeded in the form of a rousing speech about the justice system of Starfleet: its basic goals, its expectations for the crowd behavior, its rules of governing condensed into a few short phrases. All rose for the honor of the court and then all sat, waiting for the start of the trial.

A moment of silence, before –

"Seamus Finnegan, you are called to the court."

He was called to the stand, finally. It's what the entire mob is doing here, to see this man, the man who destroyed the Enterprise, tortured its captain.

The door opened, the one right behind the stand.

Polished, dark, rich wood gleamed in the quiet courtroom, as the sunlight gleamed through the tall, thin windows, cutting through the puffy clouds outside. Jim had never fully appreciated the beauty of his surroundings in a courtroom before. Had he been any other man, even himself from a year ago, he could not have possibly held himself with such poise and grace, especially with the pounding of nervousness attacking his knee, which should have been shaking, his fingers, which should have been tapping, his teeth, which should have been chattering.

As it was, Jim had been through so much shit that his body no longer responded to his panic. His face was certainly not expressionless, but it was certainly sharply cold, like a perfectly sculpted marble statue, regal and stately in form; his features revealed an almost merciless sense of justice, with a glimmer of satisfaction lurking behind the curl of his mouth. His stance hadn't become rigid, but had actually smoothed and rounded, as his body naturally relaxed into a pose of a model for a photoshoot, hands folding together, arms falling into place, legs crossing and stretching seamlessly into where they were meant to be.

But the most frightening thing, the thing that clinched interplanetary disputes, the thing that ended threats towards the crew of the Enterprise, the thing that drew his crew to him in absolute devotion, the thing that quite simply scared the hell out of Finnegan when he walked out to his trial, was that look in Kirk's eyes. That inexplicable look, the one you saw and knew exactly what Kirk wanted you to know. It exuded strength, incomprehensible passion, mysterious ingenuity, cutting shrewdness, a sense of command, a sense of expertise. And most of all, that defining factor, a certain animalistic ruthlessness.

Finnegan had seen those same eyes, had seen those very eyes, once before. Of course, knowing Kirk he'd seen those blue eyes countless times. But these eyes – the ones that could easily cut into diamond – these he had only seen once.

Once before, at another trial, at another time, at another place. They had been just like this, one on the stand and one in the stands. One watching the other's disgrace, one watching the other walk free.

It clicked with both of them, at that moment, both of them remembered, both of their eyes glassed over for a moment, seeing the other side, seeing the past, seeing what the other had seen –

((()))

Regret; regret piling up one after the other, just a mess, a wad of guilt lodged inside of you, a long splintering chunk of wood forcefully embedded into your gut. Stare up from the long rows of emptiness, where a flock should be, where a crowd should be watching, if only to see me, like I am now, in this state, so entirely pathetic, so they can go tell the world about this pathetic man they see, so incredibly wrapped up in himself, so incredibly stupid for such an intelligent man. A crowd to point fingers, snigger quietly but just loud enough to be heard in the short silences between tracks, a crowd to announce his utter devastation to, to hear his misery and mock him in his pathetic struggle. A crowd to beat him down, choose him for the sacrifice, tear him apart in a mobbing frenzy. Anything to escape that, the burning look of that man. A crowd, a country, a planet, a galaxy of anyone else, anyone, please, but that one man's eyes on him, seeing him, knowing that he was here, that he was sitting in this stretch of wooden seating, that he was here in this old-fashioned courtroom, that he was here watching it happen, the results of his plan, his great work. His masterpiece of a failure, his greatest symphony of clashing, falling glass onto a gritty concrete. But he couldn't look away.

A flash, another, another flash of the camera, right in his face, right there, bright afterglow of the shining light fading in the corner of his eye, but he can't close his eyes at all, he's too focused on the lone man in the pews facing him, that one man in uniform, his cadet uniform, the one over there with the sneer and that shitfaced look in his eye. That one, he had to focus on, couldn't stop focusing. Cheese, take a nice picture, that's the man you really want. That's the real culprit here, the lying shit watching all of you condemn me, that's who did it, that's who really did it. But I can't say it, I can't say any of it, no, I've got to go about this the right way, the way it'll take to get true justice, if I just up and said it the bastard would never get what was coming to him, no, that wouldn't do at all. Flash, flash, another flash right in the face, and the trial hadn't even started yet, can't believe how much that hurt, not sure if I'm talking about the flash in my eyes or that man across the room and what he did, can't tell, probably both, of course it's both you dumbass, why do you always try to fool yourself, unless it's just the fact that he betrayed you, the cameras you could care less about.

((()))

- but it was only a flash, just a moment, anything but a moment of understanding. Seeing, yes, but not understanding. A moment in time, crystallized into the throes of time as one of those infinite moments, when for that one second, everything is deeper than it seems, and everything stops to contemplate that infinite vastness.

And then it was over. Finnegan looked into his lap as he took a seat at the stand, brushing his skin against the cool metal of the restraints circling his wrists. Kirk's look did not falter, did not deviate, but stayed on target, mouth hardening into a thin line. His eyes blazed with an incontrollable, inexplicable emotion, radiating.

And the trial officially began.

Admiral Fayden gestured, and all rose. With a small and elegant metal pointer, he tapped the rather large bronze bell (ding ding, ding ding, ding ding) before, "This court is now in session."

All sat.

Fayden continued to speak. "I have appointed, as members of this court, Vice Admiral John Gill, Admiral T'Pol, Commander James Williams, Doctor Soong the Third, Commodore Stone, Captain Lindstrom, Admiral Jonathan Archer, Vice Admiral Gardner, Admiral Erika Hernandez, Captain Kraznovsky, Rear Admiral Stephen Carabatsos, Fleet Admiral Nogura, Admiral Christopher Pike, and Captain Nensi Chandra. Lieutenant Seamus Finnegan, I direct your attention to the fact that you have the right to ask for substitute officers if you feel that any of these names harbor prejudiced attitudes to your case."

Finnegan's face was wooden. It was clear to all that, as a Starfleet officer, he had heard every single name of that jury in his textbooks in the Academy. His voice was small, even in the echoing courtroom. "I consent to this court."

Fayden's lips thinned. "Do you consent to the services of Commander Spock and Lieutenant Nyota Uhura as prosecuting officers, and to myself as president of the court?"

"I consent."

"Very well. Now to the charges."

Fayden signaled, and the charges were read off by the computer.

"Purposeful misinformation input into computer terminals. Frivolity of duty. Tapping secure and confidential communication frequencies. Theft of Federation equipment. Breaching privacy of fellow crewmembers. Destruction of Federation property. Breaking and entering into an unauthorized area within a starship. Capture of a fellow officer. Conspiracy to commit murder. Murder of a fellow officer. Flying an unlicensed spacecraft in Federation space. Capture, removal, and extreme physical assault on a commanding officer. Conspiracy to commit murder. Attempted murder of said commanding officer. Evasion of capture of the authorities. Responsible for starship malfunction or destruction, and all damages resulting."

Fayden's eyes looked down upon Finnegan rather coldly as the computer finally stopped reciting. "…What is the plea?"

Finngean stood rather timidly, unable to look Fayden in the eye, as he wet his dry lips with a flick of the tongue. Jim's eyes were focused on the back of his head, avidly watching his every twitch. "Nolo contondre," he muttered, voice barely breaking over the silence of the court.

Jim's mouth gaped open, President of the Court Fayden's jaw tightened, Spock's eyebrows shot up, Bones' hands clenched, Uhura inhaled with a gasp of surprise, Chekhov cursed softly in Russian, Sulu cocked his head in confusion, and everyone else present reeled back from this shocking plea. Most of them had never ever even heard of this type of plea, Jim was sure. Most people, even lieutenants, had only heard of the customary "guilty" or "not-guilty" pleas. This was certainly different. For such a famous, unique trial, Finnegan was certainly pulling out all of the stops, most certainly for the least amount of punishment he could possibly receive. Jim glanced at his attorney, who was some seedy looking lawyer in a suit. Evidently not a Starfleet officer.

Clearly, the next step for Spock was to go through each plea by witness and convince the jury of Finnegan's guilt in each instance, instead of simply getting to the most controversial matters. That was exactly what Finnegan wanted, so he could be cleared of some of the lesser charges, perhaps even cleared of some of the most essential.

Fayden recovered quickly. "Proceed, then, Prosecutor Spock."

Spock inclined his head in deference. "I first call Lieutenant Gables to the stand."

A middle-aged officer wearing yellow Command colors stood from the pews and sat at the stand, placing his right hand gingerly over the glowing arm of the chair. The bailiff took his card and input it into the computer.

"Garfield Gables. Serial Number: H359-863CL. Service Rank: Lieutenant. Position: Operational Command. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: None."

Spock rose from his seat and stood before the witness. "Lieutenant, I understand you are an Operational Commander on the Enterprise. Would you care to elaborate on your specific position?"

Gables cleared his throat. "Yessir, Commander, sir. I create, manage, and coordinate the shifts of all officers on the Enterprise with the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade within Command within my section as Roll Officer. I also periodically observe officer status, and consistently take roll electronically."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. How many officers do you schedule?"

"No more than fifty, sir."

"I believe one of the officers you observed was the Lieutenant Junior Grade Seamus Finnegan?"

"Yessir, Officer Finnegan has been under me since the beginning of the Five-Year Mission, sir."

"What were Lieutenant Junior Grade Finnegan's normal tendencies, from your perspective as Roll Officer?"

"Finnegan was always on time and never missed a day, unless he specifically took leave. I heard from fellow officers that he was a troublemaker, but I never had any difficulty with him."

"What 'trouble' was he accused of?"

"Oh, I heard he sometimes pulled harmless pranks on other officers. I also heard that he had a previous criminal record, though I never take that to heart. I figure a man's got a second chance to prove himself, and I thought Officer Finnegan had."

Spock produced a small PADD and laid it before the lieutenant. "Would you please examine this piece of evidence, and present your findings before the court."

Gables studied the contents of the PADD. "This is one of my shift tables. The date is the same day as the alleged crimes, and Finnegan's schedule is listed here."

"What times are indicated for Finnegan's shifts on the schedule?"

"He had two shifts that day, one at 500 hours and the other at 1800 hours."

"How long is a typical shift for Lieutenant Junior Grade Finnegan?"

"He always had five-hour shifts according to his station."

"What exactly was Officer Finnegan's station?"

"He was in Command, and consistently filed reports on official communications between officers on board the Enterprise."

"What were his typical command duties?"

"He commanded a section of Ensigns that collected data as to the communications themselves. They would report the communications to him, and he would report on the general workflow and competence of the Ensigns assigned to him."

"Was Officer Finnegan at his post on this specific occasion, according to the shift schedule in your hands?"

Gables glanced down at the PADD screen. "Yessir, it says here that he was at his post."

"Were you observing him on that shift, Lieutenant?"

Gables checked the PADD again. "No, sir."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I have no further questions."

Fayden nodded to Spock, who took his position behind the prosecution desk. Then Fayden turned to Finnegan's table. "Attorney Mendlesson, do you have any questions for the witness?"

"No, Your Honor." Mendlesson stayed seated, lying back in his chair, brow furrowed. In all fairness, there were no more questions available to him that would have put Finnegan in a better light. Spock had certainly covered all ground with Gables, and had gained an unbiased perspective of Finnegan's usual routine. Besides, Jim thought a bit snidely, Mendlesson probably wasn't smart enough to know where Spock was going with this line of questioning.

"Very well. Lieutenant Gables, thank you for your testimony." Fayden inclined his head at the witness stand. At this, Gables stood, made a customary sign of respect, and returned to his seat.

"Prosecutor, proceed."

"Thank you, Your Honor. I call Ensign Madison to the stand."

A young blonde stood up from right behind Jim and stepped to the front of the court. She held her card with both hands, almost reverently, and moved as if she was unsure of herself. The bailiff took the card from her kindly, and guided her to the witness stand.

"Julia Darling Madison. Serial Number: D887-496H. Service Rank: Ensign. Position: Communications Transceiver. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: None."

Spock was once again before the witness stand, facing the blonde with both hands clasped behind his back in standard Starfleet ease. "Ensign Madison, you worked under Lieutenant Junior Grade Finnegan, did you not?"

"Yessir, I was one of the Ensigns assigned to him. I received notifications of official onboard communications between officers and relayed the messages to him."

"As you were under Officer Finnegan, were you usually assigned the same shift?"

"Yessir, I am automatically assigned his shifts."

"While you work, are you in constant communication with Officer Finnegan?"

"No sir, but I do contact him often when I receive a new transmission."

"Do you see Lieutenant Junior Officer Finnegan when you report new transmissions?"

"No sir, but I message him, and he responds."

"Would you say that his responses are personal in nature, or very professional?"

"Professional, sir."

"On the date of the alleged crimes, were you at your post?"

"Yessir, I received quite a bit of communications on my second shift."

"What were the messages about, generally?"

"They were mostly about the crewman who was found murdered, sir, and the need for medical responses and security teams."

"Did you send these messages to Officer Finnegan?"

"Yessir, directly."

"Did you attach any message of your own to warn him of the contents of these messages?"

Madison blinked, as if she hadn't expected Spock to ask her this question. "Yessir, I sent him a small note explaining the gravity of the situation and that most of the communications were rippling through the ranks in attempt to spread the information among the entire crew."

"Did Officer Finnegan respond to your message?"

"Yessir, he did."

"Did you find his response odd in any way?"

Madison blinked again. This time she looked up at Spock in surprise before continuing. "Yes, I did, sir! I found his response to be too cold and professional. I thought he responded differently during other emergencies."

"How were his responses different during times of other emergencies?"

"Well, instead of saying standard things like, 'thank you for your work, I have received your message,' he would say things that directly responded to the situation. When I sent my message, I thought he would say something like, 'Yes, the rippling effect of the crew is necessary in times of crisis,' but instead I got his standard reply."

"Thank you, Ensign. Would you inform the court how an officer under Lieutenant Gables, such as yourself, reports in for duty."

Madison tensed. She understood where Spock was going with his questions this time. "Yessir. I report to my station and manually clock in with my identification card."

"Is it necessary to continually keep your card of identification within the station in order to prove attendance?"

"No, sir. I just clock in at the beginning of my shift."

"Do you clock out at the end of your shift?"

"No sir, my shift automatically ends, unless I clock in again."

"Or someone else clocks in?"

"Yessir."

"Would it be unheard of for an Ensign to clock in and leave their station before the shift is over?"

Madison started. "Not aboard the Enterprise, sir. Though I do hear that it happens sometimes on other starships, you know, that Ensigns skip their shifts sometimes."

"Thank you, Ensign." Madison momentarily relaxed. Then she tensed again as Spock returned to his questioning, taking a step forward. "Ensign Madison, what type of communications between officers do you usually oversee?"

"On a usual basis, I oversee official communications between ensigns. From there, I send them to my Lieutenant Junior Grade Officer, and he reports on my performance as well as the efficiency of the communications system the ensigns are adhering to, in both mechanical and rhetorical senses."

"In summation, your job is to help further refine the processes of communication aboard ship between the lowest-ranking officers."

"Yessir."

"Ensign, according to your knowledge, during an emergency situation, are ensigns given to much communication?"

"Yessir, I would say so."

Spock rephrased his question. "Though I understand that many ensigns receive messages from their higher-ranking officers during a crisis, do ensigns normally send many messages to fellow ensigns?"

Madison thought for a moment. "…No, sir, as you said, usually ensigns receive messages from their ranking officers. I mean, messages of consequence. Usually an Ensign just responds with 'yessir' or 'understood' during an emergency."

"Have you been on the Enterprise for long?"

"Yessir, since the beginning of the Five-Year Mission."

"Then you have experienced many emergency situations aboard the Enterprise, have you not?"

"Yessir, I have."

"You have therefore gone through a fair amount of communications between ensigns during an emergency."

"Yessir."

"And your position aboard the Enterprise as a Communication Transceiver is solely to observe and record communications between ensigns, is that correct?"

"Yessir."

"Here is a copy of the transmissions you recorded and sent to Officer Finnegan during your 1800 shift on Stardate 3478.2. Would you please inspect them."

"Yessir." Madison scanned the reports.

"Ensign Madison, would you please read the ranks of the officers listed."

"Um, yessir." Madison slowly scrolled down. "Ensign, ensign…Lieutenant Commander! Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant, Lieutenant Junior Grade… Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Lieutenant Junior Grade, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant, Lieutenant, Lieutenant, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign… Lieutenant, Ensign, Ensign, Lieutenant Commander, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign…Lieutenant Commander – Commander! Lieutenant, Ensign, Ensign, Ensign…"

"Ensign Madison, are you usually aware of the ranks of the officers you track?"

Madison visibly paled. "No, sir."

"Ensign, are you aware of the caliber of the misconduct indicated here?"

"Yessir."

"Please extrapolate."

"Yessir, sir… the communications between any officers with ranks above that of an ensign are out of my jurisdiction. I am only permitted to scan the communications between ensigns."

"What is the consequence for you to scan the transmissions of ranked officers?"

"I could lose my job, sir. Communications of a lieutenant or higher are considered secure lines of transmission, even aboard ship."

"How did you come to scan these transmissions between even the Commander and Lieutenant Commanders?"

"Sir, I receive all of my possible transmissions from officer serial numbers that are all allowed to be scanned."

"How do you receive these serial numbers?"

"They are sent to me by Lieutenant Junior Grade Finnegan, sir."

"How often are they changed?"

"Sir?"

"How often does Officer Finnegan send you serial numbers?"

"Usually once a month, sir."

"So, you usually monitor the same group of ensigns for a month."

"Yessir."

"When was the last time you received serial numbers from Officer Finnegan?"

"The same day, sir."

"When was the last time before that?"

"At the beginning of this month, sir. About a week before."

Spock paused. "Did you consider the arrival of new serial numbers to be odd, Ensign Madison?"

She bit her lip. "Yessir, as I said, usually we study the communications of the same group of ensigns for a month before moving to a new group. We had only studied group – " Madison checked her PADD. " – B6, for a week before we moved to B7."

Spock's tone, which had so far remained very stagnant, grew a bit colder. The poor ensign shrank into her seat. "Ensign Madison, does Lieutenant Junior Grade Finnegan have direct access to the serial number of other officers?"

"Yessir."

"Does Officer Finnegan have access to the serial numbers of all officers aboard ship?"

"No sir."

"Does Officer Finnegan have any higher-ranking officer directly in command of him that would have access to the serial numbers of all officers aboard ship?"

"No sir, none that directly command him."

"To your knowledge, which officers aboard ship have access to the serial numbers of all officer aboard ship?"

"I… the Captain?" Madison blinked rapidly. "…And the Commander, and probably the Chief Medical Officer."

"This is correct, Ensign. The only officers who have access to all serial numbers are specific Lieutenant Commanders and above. Serial numbers of ensigns are commonly used for transceiver purposes, and even lieutenant junior grade serial numbers are sometimes accessed by lieutenants. However, the serial numbers accessed by yourself during your 1800 hour shift on Stardate 3478.2 are clearly restricted, even including myself, the Commander."

Ensign Madison looked as if she would rather be in a cave 5000 miles underground with no food or chance of escape than stay on that witness stand.

Spock continued to speak. "Clearly, as you yourself had no connection whatsoever to the process of systematically uncovering these restricted serial numbers, there is no possibility that you could be charged with tapping a secure communications frequency. However, there is the possibility that, as the officer in charge of assigning serial numbers and therefore with some amount of clearance to the program containing all serial numbers aboard the Enterprise, with no directly superior officer to assign serial numbers to him, Lieutenant Junior Grade Finnegan illegally input a virus into the serial number system to gain all serial numbers. Is this a fair assessment, Ensign?"

Madison's eyes bulged. She nodded mutely in response.

"Objection!" cried Finnegan's defense attorney, who had sprung onto his feet as he finally realized what Spock was doing. "Your Honor, the question calls for speculation!"

Fayden coolly observed the attorney, and then turned his attention to Spock. "Prosecutor?"

"You Honor," Spock stated, "I am a Vulcan. I do not speculate. I logically conclude possibilities." Jim had to smirk a little bit at that. He turned to Bones, who rolled his eyes with a grin.

Fayden nodded. He turned to Mendlesson. "Overruled."

Wilting, Medlesson crumpled back into his chair.

"Continue, Prosecutor."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Spock took a second to consider the ensign before him. "Ensign, you are undoubtedly aware of the seriousness of the misconduct in the act of tapping a secure frequency, as you indicated you would have lost your job if you had been culpable."

"Yessir."

"Are you aware of why this is the case?"

"Sir?"

"Could you please explain to the court why secure channels are necessary for communications between the higher officers?"

"Well, sir… I believe the higher officers have serial numbers that relay frequencies that are more difficult to decode as you go up the hierarchy, so it might be because the higher officers routinely transmit confidential information."

"Quite correct, Ensign. Confidential information includes what types of topics?"

"Um, the exact ship position, the ship's next actions, the health of the most superior officers, um, even the latest political movement of the Federation, I suppose."

"Yes, all of the above are transmissions that are routinely passed through communications that rely heavily upon confidentiality." Spock glanced at Uhura. "Communication is the most fundamentally important function on a starship, and a requirement for the safety of all involved is the confidentiality of the most essential information that is passed along."

Spock's hold behind his back tightened even more. "Ensign, please regard your reports of communications once again."

"Uh, yessir."

"Please read transmission AA1034."

"Yessir… 'This is Chief Security Officer Giotto. I need three emergency response teams at my position, Deck 5, Section 7, ASAP. I also want another two teams to scan the entire section of the ship for any suspicious activity using pattern Alpha 4. Arrest any suspicious persons.'"

"Ensign Madison, how could someone use this confidential information?"

"They could avoid the security teams, if they knew the ship well enough and if they knew the security rotation pattern."

"Do you know the security rotation patterns, Ensign?"

"Yessir, everyone on board knows them. We are all required to know them."

"And everyone is well aware of the sections of the ship?"

"Yessir. Every nook and cranny."

"Thank you, Ensign Madison. I have no further questions." Spock stalked back to his place and took a seat.

"Attorney Mendlesson, any questions for the witness?" Fayden looked over the point of his nose to see Mendlesson withering where he sat.

"No questions, Your Honor…"

"You are relieved of the stand, Ensign Madison."

"Thank you sir." She got her card, returned the PADD, and rushed back to her seat.

"Prosecutor."

"Your Honor. I call Lieutenant Ridley Cornell to the stand."

Cornell stumbled onto the stand, thrusting his card to the bailiff and nervously tapping his foot. He was younger than Madison had been, and twice as anxious.

"Ridley Scott Cornell. Serial Number K772-593FL. Service Rank: Lieutenant. Position: Computer Engineer. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: None."

Spock began his interrogations for the third time. "Lieutenant Cornell. You are a skilled computer engineer aboard the Enterprise. In what do you specialize?"

"P-programming, sir."

"Are you in the Engineering section of the Enterprise, Lieutenant?"

"Yessir, under Ch-Chief Engineer Scott, sir. But we all call him Scotty."

"Indeed. I have here on this PADD a copy of the program found running on Lieutenant Junior Grade Finnegan's station. Please observe its intricacies."

"Yessir." Cornell focused all of his energy on that small screen, and his foot stopped its nervous tapping. Minutes ticked by, and finally Cornell looked back up again.

"What type of program is this, Lieutenant?"

Cornell's voice now rang with authority. "This is a receiver module coupled with a transceiving audio-communicating function and a looping, standard replying mechanism, sir."

There was an immense gasp that traveled around the entire courtroom.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Cornell. Given the previous questioning of Ensign Madison, what are the immediate implications of this particular algorithm?"

"The station in question would receive any messages sent to it, send the messages directly to another receiver, most likely on a private server, and then automatically respond to the original sender of the message with one standard reply."

"More specifically, Lieutenant?"

"In this particular case, the messages Ensign Madison sent were routed through Officer Finnegan's station to another device he had on him, while Ensign Madison got a standard reply in return that was not actually directly composed by Officer Finnegan."

"Lieutenant Cornell, would an officer _at_ his station use an algorithm like this one?"

"No sir, the station would be completely frozen except for this one function if that were the case."

"Is it wise to assume, if that is the case, that Officer Finnegan was _not_ at his station when this program was running on his station?"

"Yessir, or just not manning it."

"Since the messages were automatically routed to a private server, is it even more likely that Officer Finnegan was away from his station?"

"Yessir, since if it wasn't routed he would have to receive the messages from his station, which he wouldn't need the algorithm for in the first place."

"Lieutenant, who created and ran this algorithm on Officer Finnegan's station, and how can you be sure?"

"Well, sir, only the officer on shift at a station is permissible to change any programming on that station, and since Finnegan had already signed into his shift like you said before, there was no way anyone else could have turned on the algorithm unless a superior officer signed in on that station personally."

"There was no such superior officer."

"Then sir, Finnegan was the one who triggered this algorithm."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. On the same PADD you hold in your hands, there is another file stored. Please access it now."

"Yessir."

Again, Cornell's brow furrowed and he leaned over, scrunching his face into the screen. Lines and lines of programming went by his eyes, and he gobbled them up like snacks. When he had finished, he looked up at Spock in amazement.

"Commander…" Cornell stammered "Sir…"

"Lieutenant, what you find as another file on that PADD was another algorithm found in the Enterprise mainframe computer and traced back to Officer Finnegan's station." Spock paused for emphasis. "What are the specific contents of this algorithm?"

Cornell's face slackened. His eyes were unfocused, staring at the warm glow of the PADD's screen, but his mouth moved as if he had no control of it. "This algorithm is exceedingly complex and multi-faceted. It's meant to bypass the Starfleet security system that I helped design. More specifically, it's meant to cut into the system, copy exceedingly confidential information, and send that information to a private server."

"What type of confidential information, exactly?"

"Sir, this algorithm specifically targets serial numbers."

"A limited set of serial numbers?"

"No sir, all of the serial numbers available to the server."

"Do you recognize the private server, Lieutenant?"

"Yessir… It's the same private server that was in the first algorithm."

"Is it then logical to assume that Finnegan himself triggered this algorithm as well?"

"Yessir, the private server is the same, and the time the algorithm was launched was directly before the second algorithm was launched. The two had to be timed."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. In effect, Officer Finnegan triggered both of the algorithms, copied confidential information and as a result began receiving confidential communications, he froze his station and routed all of the confidential communications from all of his ensigns to a private, portable server, while keeping all of his ensigns assured that he was still at his post from the automatic standard replies. Is this not the case?"

"That's exactly it, sir."

"And if Officer Finnegan was in possession of a private portable server with all communications on board the Enterprise coming through it, with the ability to move throughout the ship, and he had the knowledge of the ship's procedures and blueprint, could he not navigate throughout the ship undetected?"

"He could, sir."

"Would these actions be illegal in any fashion?"

"Yessir, Commander sir! It would constitute purposeful misinformation, when Finnegan lied about being on duty to his commanding officer and to his ensigns, it would constitute frivolity of duty, because he did not stay at his station during his shift, and it would constitute breaching secure and confidential communication frequencies. There's no doubt his actions would earn him a court martial at the least, not to mention his position, rank, and status as an officer!"

"Thank you, Lieutenant. No further questions."

Spock calmly stalked back to the prosecution table. He had a sparkle in his eye.

The entire courtroom was deathly quiet.

Fayden broke the silence. "Mr. Mendlesson?"

The attorney's eyes were downcast. "No questions, Your Honor."

"Very well. Lieutenant Cornell, you may leave the stand."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

Cornell collected his identification card from the bailiff, and went back to his seat.

Fayden's eyes flickered back to Spock. It was more a formality now than anything. Everyone knew Spock was going to call someone else to the stand, someone just as perfectly fitting as the last witness. Spock was going to capture every angle of the trial so incredibly perfectly that the defense attorney wouldn't be able to ask a single question of a witness – except, perhaps, when they finally came to Finnegan himself. Fayden went along with it, and allowed Spock to proceed.

"Prosecutor."

"Your Honor. I call Lieutenant Junior Grade Nicholas Bradley to the stand."

Bradley marched up to the front of the court with an air of confidence and assurance. He calmly handed over his identification and regally sat back at the witness stand, placing his hand over the glowing light.

His card popped into the computer. "Nicholas James Bradley. Serial Number: I490-238Y. Service Rank: Lieutenant Junior Grade. Position: Security Officer. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: None."

For the fourth time, Spock stepped before the court. This time he held no PADDs. "Officer Bradley," Spock began, "You are a Security Officer aboard the Enterprise, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was your most recent assignment, Lieutenant Junior Grade Bradley?"

"I was ordered to investigate Engineering along with two other men in a squadron, sir."

"What was your team investigating exactly?"

"Well, sir, we were attempting to trace five missing objects from Engineering that had been reported that morning."

"What were the missing objects?"

"The first object was a… it was a handheld device, most commonly used for transmissions. The second object was a small EMP outputter, a device that gives off a pulse that can knock out machinery within the radius of its power. The third object was… hm. I think it was a sort of magnetic device that could bend metal to an extreme degree, usually used for building machines. The fourth object was a... well…"

Here Bradley fumbled, uncomfortable to continue. Spock nodded for him to continue.

"…It was a turkey sandwich. Chief Engineer Scott was… quite particular on this object to be recovered as soon as possible."

The courtroom collectively snorted their laughter.

Spock attempted to restore immediate silence, with relative success. "The fifth item, Officer…?"

"Oh, and the fifth object was this huge cord thing. We weren't quite sure what it was."

"I see. Did you recover any of these items?"

"No sir, we were called to other duties when the ship went to Red Alert."

"Understood. Would you recognize the objects in question if they were presented to you?"

"Yessir, we were shown intricate diagrams of each object."

"Even the turkey sandwich?"

"Yessir, even the turkey sandwich, sir."

Again, the entire courtroom had to forcefully contain their laughter.

"Then as I present each piece of evidence collected from the scene of the murder of Lieutenant Junior Grade MacArthur, will you be willing to identify it?"

"Certainly, sir."

Moving smoothly, cutting across the courtroom with ease, Spock picked up a small black thing from the prosecutor's table.

"Evidence E."

"That is… the thing that bends the metal, the third object we were looking for."

The next object Spock picked up was a shiny, bright square.

"Evidence J."

"That's the outputter, the one that can stop machinery from functioning."

Spock then handled what seemed to be another PADD, though there were slight differences in design.

"Evidence R."

"That… that's exactly it! That's the first object we were looking for, the, um, the transmission-focused device!"

"Thank you, Officer. Now, Evidence W."

"That's the weird cord, I think. I don't really know what it does, but it probably connects circuitry."

"Thank you, thank you…And lastly… Evidence C."

"Ah!" Bradley laughed. "It's the turkey sandwich!"

This time, the court didn't even try. They just let their laughter out.

"Is there anything particular which you observe about this sandwich, Officer Bradley?"

"Yessir, it's got a bite in it, sir!" Bradley was still quite overtaken with mirth, but he was feigning a very intensely serious face.

"Was the object you were searching for already bitten, Officer?"

"No sir, we had very _specific_ directions that we were to bring it back – without a single bite."

"Thank you, Officer. Now, given all of this evidence from the very crime scene of the murder of Officer MacArthur, would you say that the perpetrator who took the five items from Engineering was also present in the same chamber where the murder took place?"

"Yessir, I would."

"And would this perpetrator be the same person as the murderer of the Lieutenant Junior Grade MacArthur?"

"Either that or an accomplice, sir."

"That is very logical statement, Lieutenant Junior Grade Bradley. Thank you for your time. I have no further questions."

Spock returned to the prosecution table. Fayden asked Mendlesson if he had any questions for the witness, but he had none.

"Please proceed, Prosecutor."

"Thank you, Your Honor. I call Lieutenant Joy Chapel to the stand."

Chapel did not scurry to the front of the court, but gracefully walked to her position with dignity.

"Joy Chapel. Serial Number: SR478-0625CN. Service Rank: Lieutenant. Position: Head Nurse. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: Decorated by Starfleet Nurses."

"Nurse Chapel, I believe you were instrumental in the autopsy of Officer MacArthur."

"Indeed I was, Commander. I processed the entire autopsy."

"What is your diagnosis?"

"Hours before the murder, Officer MacArthur was taken forcibly captive, beaten into unconsciousness by what I believe to be a blow to the head, but this is uncertain. He was bound and gagged, as evidenced by the gagging found deep within his throat. Directly before Officer MacArthur expired, he was put through a series of bludgeonings, then he was stabbed through the chest cavity with four separate puncture wounds, and lastly his entire head was systematically blown apart. I believe what killed him was the puncture wounds, and the partial decapitation was after he had died."

"Nurse Chapel, do you have any comparative cases from past experience?"

"Yes, directly. The case of Chief Engineer Scott, when his entire chest cavity was removed by the creature named Slistastostas."

"So in this case, there is no murder weapon, but simply a murderer?"

"Indeed, Commander."

"And you suspect the actual murderer of Officer MacArthur to be Slistastostas."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you believe the entire act was the work of Slistastostas alone?"

"No sir."

"Why is that?"

"Because, sir, Slistastostas acted on instinct alone when he killed. Doctor McCoy and I thoroughly studied his brain patterns; even though Slistastostas is perfectly capable of complete animalistic killing intent, that is only possible when all other realms of thought patterns have been wiped from his mind. When Slistastostas is calm, he is incapable of violent or derogatory thought. Though the act of murder was indeed done by Slistastostas, the entire instance – the beforehand captivity, the murder being within your chambers, Commander, and the victim's unlucky placement within the chamber – point to the existence of another criminal, one who thought through the entire thing."

"In other words, the mastermind."

"Yessir."

"Thank you, Nurse. I have no further questions."

"Attorney Mendlesson?"

"No further questions here, Your Honor."

"Very well. Prosecutor."

"Your Honor. I call Lieutenant C. C. Giotto to the stand."

Jim whipped his head around to see Giotto stand up. He hadn't seen him when he'd scanned the room earlier, and Jim was known for his eagle vision. Giotto had been hidden by a very tall lieutenant, to the far left of Jim. He reached the witness stand, calm and very much in control of himself. Just what Jim liked to see in his Chief Security Officer.

"C. C. Giotto. Serial Number: RD165-229CG. Service Rank: Lieutenant Commander. Position: Security Chief. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: Award of Valor."

Spock stepped up for the sixth time. "Lieutenant Commander, were you in charge of the investigation of the murder of Lieutenant Junior Grade MacArthur?"

"Yessir."

"What was the result of your findings?"

"After testing the entire room for all types of evidence, we found DNA evidence from Officer Finnegan at the crime scene."

"In which particular piece of evidence?"

"The turkey sandwich, sir. He'd taken a bite of it."

"Were there any more instances of his DNA?"

"Yessir, after finding his DNA there, we also found traces on Evidences E, J, R, and W."

"Will it please the court to recall that these pieces of evidence are the same objects that Officer Bradley identified as the missing objects from Engineering."

"Point taken." Fayden was following along quite interestedly.

"How were these Evidences rationalized?"

"Well, the outputter was a useful tool for the suspect to knock out the security system to the Commander's door, and the metal bender, I forget the name, was used to forcefully pry the door apart. So those two were easy enough to place at the scene. The handheld device had less logical means, but it had Finnegan's DNA and prints all over it, and obviously it came in use earlier. The strange unidentified cords, however, are still a mystery. We know they were extensively used by Finnegan, and they were in extremely close contact with both Slistas and the victim. But that is all we know; the scientists and engineers have probably figured it out by now."

"You knew, then, that Slistastostas was intricately connected to this crime?"

"Of course. His signature is all over the crime scene."

"It is known to the court that Slistastostas was imprisoned in the brig as a possible suspect for this murder. How was the investigation affected by this assumption?"

"We knew there was more than one perpetrator involved, and though we knew one of the murderers was Slistastostas, we also knew that we had to find the other one."

"How was the investigation to find the other criminal impacted when Slistastostas escaped the brig in a moment of emergency?"

"We were able to focus more manpower on finding the other suspect, knowing that we could not capture Slistas again with the damaged ship and other priorities."

"What were you able to find?"

"…Before we had time to find anything, news came that the Captain had been taken hostage by Finnegan on an enemy ship. By then we had gotten the DNA evidence, and for all of our knowledge, it was too late to act."

"Do you assume that it was Officer Finnegan who stole the items from Engineering?"

"Yessir."

"Do you also assume it was Officer Finnegan who captured and restrained Officer MacArthur?"

"Yessir."

"Do you further assume that it was Officer Finnegan who forcibly broke into my quarters?"

"Yessir."

"So you even assume that it was Officer Finnegan who took Officer MacArthur and put him in my chamber?"

"Yessir."

"Do you, Chief Security Officer C. C. Giotto, believe that the murder of Officer MacArthur was physically perpetrated by the creature Slistastostas, but was masterminded by the Officer Finnegan here today at this court?"

"Yes _sir_," said Giotto with relish.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. I have no further questions."

Presider of the Court Fayden was still in a silent shock, completely engrossed in the proceedings, when he started out of it to continue his duties. "Ahem, yes, Attorney?"

"…No questions, Your Honor."

"Very good, then. Prosecutor Spock?"

"Would it please the court for a recess?"

"Yes, in fact," said President Admiral Fayden, "I now call a recess on this trial, so that it may be resumed in one hour."

He took his metal pointer and rang the bell again, to signal the temporary adjournment.

Finnegan was taken to the back once again, and the audience that filled the courtroom filed out one by one, still struck by everything that had happened.

((()))

There was one big question that Jim had.

"Spock, what the hell was the whole 'weird cord' shit about? Why didn't you scientifically explain it and why it was there?"

"Because I do not know yet, Captain. Scotty is still experimenting with it to discover its main properties and functions in the Starfleet workshop."

"Oh, so that's why you called for the recess? To buy him time?"

"Yes, and to eat this particular dinner with my Captain."

That made Jim drop everything and grin. Since when had he become such a big softie, melting at any cheesy thing that came out of Spock's mouth? He decided it didn't matter when, as long as he didn't stop feeling it now.

((()))

Uhura furiously scribbled down notes as she went over all of her evidence one last time. There was no way she was going to mess up any of her interrogations. Every single one was going to be perfect. Spock had done excellently, even according to his own tough standards. That meant Uhura was going to have to be impeccable in every way, even though the people she was interrogating were all from the Enterprise, she knew them well.

She would be damned if she was going to make a fool of herself in front of all of her heros, all of those famous officers on the jury. She would be especially roasted if she made a fool of herself in front of Spock. And she would kill herself in the most painful way possible if she made a fool of herself in front of _Kirk_, of all people.

She kept on scribbling down notes, tearing up edges of paper, scribbling down, tearing up, scribbling, tearing, scribbling, tearing.

((()))

"Aee theenk zat Commander Spok vill call on me zee next time. Vat do you theenk, Sulu?"

"Hmm, probably. The next section is probably going to be a lot about the chase and the Sealion and all that stuff, so there's a good bet you'll be on the stand."

"Exciiiiiting, no?"

"Uh, well, yeah, I guess. But I don't know, it can't be more exciting than being at the Helm or anything. I mean, it's just a trial, right? Nothing life-threatening."

"Vell, vat eef Finnee-gan jumps frum hees chaer and vips out hees phaser, hm? _Then_ you vill not bee theenking that eet eesn't exciting, hm?"

"Oh, cool! And what if, after that, President Admiral Fayden whipped out like his legendary whip, and then cracked the gun out of Finnegan's hands? How cool would that be?"

"No, Aee am theenkink that zis ees too much. Perhaps, Kepten Kirk vill jump frum hees seat and pull legendary move of martial art on Finnee-gan, and keel heem."

"Nah, I can't see that happening, Kirk is wounded right now. Didn't you see his leg? He had like, a splint on it or something."

"Hm, then mebbe Commander Spok vill use hees Wulcan neck pinch to keel him during hees interwiew."

"Okay, you're on. How much do you want to bet?"

"Hmmm… An entire veek of choosink your lunches frum ze replicator."

"Agreed."

((()))

Scotty tinkered and tinkered and tinkered with the daeum thing, and he came up with all sorts of confusing results on the functions it could have. Not only did it disrupt electrical function, it stimulated it. Not only did it shut down mechanical devices, it started them up. It seemed to have all sorts of confusingly polarized functions, and he couldn't find a way of isolating the causes.

"Hey, Scotty. How's it goin' down here?"

Scotty started out of his haze. He looked up from the worktable and saw a magical, miraculous sight. There, across the table, was the good Doctor, holding two plain turkey sandwiches, one in each hand.

"Doctor…" He was actually speechless with wonder, now's that's a sight. Scotty was never speechless for anything, but this just blew him away.

"Yeah, yeah, just take it and eat it already." Bones grumbled. "You prob'ly ain't had a thing to eat in the past couple of days, anyhow. Don't know how you can still be workin' on those damn machines."

Dropping his tools on the ground, which gave out a great clang to which Scotty didn't even pay heed, Scotty reached both his arms across the table, ever so slowly, his eyes completely affixed on one beautiful thing: that turkey sandwich.

Finally, reverently, he took it from the good, blessed Doctor, and then munch, munch, munch! The entire sandwich was gone. He licked his lips, savoring the taste of the meat. That's funny, it didn't _taste_ like replicated meat…

"Did'jae buy thissae meat from th' market, then? 'Taint replicated, is't?"

"Naw, it ain't replicated. I went to th' store an' I bought some damn good turkey from the deli. This is real meat, Scotty. Real meat."

"Ah, 'tis a blessed thing."

The two of them sat in companiable silence, Scotty staring out into the distance, Bones watching him while finishing up his own sandwich. For symptoms, of course.

Suddenly, Scotty's eyes widened substantially, and his mouth opened in shock. Bones leapt up from his seat, grabbing for his hypo, thinking it was another heart attack.

Then Scotty leaped from his own chair, flinging a fist into the air in triumph.

"Ah've got it! The cord, it responds to its food's _quality_ to work in different ways!"

Scotty grabbed his tools and started working intensely on testing the damn cord again.

Bones relaxed back into his chair, putting his medic bag back down, and picked up his sandwich. He decided that he actually kind of liked watching Scotty work.

He still had a half-hour before the trial resumed.

He didn't have anything else to do, anyway.

((()))

End of Part 15

tbc

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_Author's Note_: uuuuuugggghhhhhhh finally finished this chapter after three weeks of research into the basis of Starfleet's legal system and further into the UN Charter and the comparison between Guarantees and rights given plus the difference between the Federation Charter and the Coalition of Planets versus the Constitution of the United Federation of Planets, etc., and all of the famous names from the generation before Kirk and Spock for the trial's jury and judge (some of whom I made up, but most of them are actually characters, go look it up if you care enough) and also I watched the entire episodes of every Star Trek episode with a court case in it like a billion times just to get the right feel and tone and dialogue stuff down uuuuugggghhhhh… finally finished this chapter after days of planning the different twists and turns of the trial… finally finished this chapter after hours and hours of typing…(I seriously pulled an all-nighter for this! I haven't slept in over 48 hours! I'm going insane! I'm starting to see things! Spock, is that you…? Why are you painting my walls…?)

I say things like I've finished, but… depressingly… this is only half of the goddamn trial. Uuuuuugggggghhhhhh but I was revived near the end from Scotty's appearance, and Bones being cute. And, I really liked writing the dialogue between Chekhov and Sulu, they're pretty cute too. Uuuuuugh I'm dying… dying, I tell you… I feel like Bones being overworked to the point of DEATH… Oh, the melodrama.

Revive me with your love and reviews. Or I'll seriously die. SERIOUSLY. But not. I don't care anymore, I've been through a near-death experience already…

(By the way over 10,000 words in this chapter alone = PERSONAL VICTORY DANCE)


	16. Of Lawyers, Logic, and Lies

_Pre-show Accommodations; or rather, the longest pre-chapter Author's Note to ever be found in a fanfiction_:

(This might be a TLDR. Whatever. Read it if you want to be a super-nerd. It's really long and involved for an opening statement.)

Okok, so I am super excited about this chapter because I had to do so much freaking work to make it so. I have a special treat for all you rabid fans, and that is – you get to follow along with some of the technobabble! :D

At some point in this chapter, we'll be focusing on part of Chekhov's job, navigations. In order to do this, I had to pull some serious research hours. I finally found a legitimate, easy-to-read map of the star systems catalogued by the Federation itself. It can be found at this convenient website: startrekmaps . com (delete the spaces.) I got the simplified map of the Federation Main Core, if you'd like to get the same one.

If you care to follow along with what Chekhov is talking about when he's referencing planets and starbases, you now can! I have, of course, had to take some liberties. I found that some of the things I've been saying… have been a bit wrong. So! Stating liberties here. Mars, the place where the Enterprise and _Sealion_ crashed, is actually New Mars, or the Martian Colonies, that is in the star system of Deneva. Ahem. Yeah. (Super-liberty.)

Other less important liberties include: I had to make some system to form proper marks and coordinates, so I made them. For _coordinates_, I first distinguish the x and y distances from the vector by lightyears, then state as "y by x." Then I randomly assign a degree from the galactic plane (north or south) and put it before the rise by run. So in the end, a coordinate will look something like this: 7 N, 45 by -98. The _marks_ are a bit easier, since they're all about 360 first by horizontal and then by vertical. I counted the Galactic Meridian as zero and 360 for horizontal, and the Galactic plane as zero and 180 for vertical. Example of a mark: 87 mark 30. Easy enough. The tricky part is when they aren't straight lines all the time... but enough of that.

Oh, and the star system Zanabar had to be made up. It's important. It's where Colony IX is located. Ok, here goes, I'm tryin' to tell you where it is on the map. (Because I made a place for it there.) Coordinates are a bit tough for you guys, but here they are: 2 N, -28.9 by 403.72. It's in the small space between the Romulan DMZ, Klingon border, and Federation border. Really close to Starbase 234 over there. Check it out. (By the way, there's totally another Starbase 234 – see if you can find it and give me the basic coordinates or just tell me what it's near or something. It's like a game! :D No pressure.)

I made a cute little map for you guys to check out for the whole thing to make it easier to follow the trial specifically. And don't hate on my evidently superior editing which resembles the crayon-scribblings of a five-year-old. You can find it here: http:/img15 .imageshack .us/i/trialmapofmarks .png/

And because I am responsible for this – I deeply apologize for my error in the last chapter. Chapel's first name is NOT Joy, it is most definitely Christine. Again, sorry about that. Forget it ever happened. Shoutout to LaurAmour to pointing that out. (I think it happened because of the old days when I watched Pokemon and all the nurses were named Joy… But that's just a theory.)

And yeah, I'm a girl. Just to, you know, allay all those fears/questions about it.

TLDR end – continue on to the story! :)

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Technical Difficulties

Chapter 16: Of Lawyers, Logic, and Lies

((()))

Jim finished off his lunch in a hurry, and threw his tray into the recycler. Spock was already done, ruthlessly efficient as always. With the hint of a grin, Jim glanced over at him.

"Time to rock and roll."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "…Quite."

They set off together in the general direction of the courtroom, only two buildings south of their immediate position.

Scotty and Bones came around the corner, both of them clapping a hand on Jim's shoulder in turn before taking strides behind them. Uhura had spotted them and was coming from across the quad, carrying files and PADDs. Chekhov and Sulu ran from the lobby of their dorm, trying to catch up. Silently, they all followed.

As the bridge crew passed groups of people still eating lunch, walking on the sidewalk, or talking to friends, Jim nodded to those whom he knew and recognized – fellow officers from the Enterprise. All of these officers immediately dropped whatever they were doing, saluted, and joined Kirk and Spock to go to court.

((()))

The doors to the courtroom opened again, and the mob of people that had been anxiously waiting in the lobby rushed through to get back to their seats. As Security Officer Cheng watched people pass him by, he immediately noted whether they were armed, what their rank was, whom they had come in with, and what they were talking about. He was especially keen on the higher-ranked officers and the foreign representatives.

The entire room was bustling with activity, conversations flying all over the place and officers rustling every which way. As Cheng looked over the crowd, he saw a sea of colorful, rustling uniforms. When his eyes were looking far off to the other sections of the courtroom, Cheng heard it before he knew what was happening.

The people closest to the door were the first ones to quiet down, because they saw it almost immediately. Then the quiet spread like a wildfire through the rest of the court as heads whipped around to see the impressive sight until the entire room was silent. Cheng turned to see what was happening.

Captain James T. Kirk stepped through the door, slowly but surely. Every single step that he took resounded through the courtroom with a clipped tap, and his limp was accentuated through the noise. His arms were behind his back in standard Starfleet ease, and he looked ever the sturdy leader.

On his right and left came Commander Spock and Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy, both of them loyally flanking their commanding officer and looking forward with pride at his progression.

Behind them came Head of Communications Nyota Uhura, Chief of Engineering Montgomery Scott, and Chief of Security Giotto. Each of them held their heads high with confidence as they marched down the center aisle. Then came a flurry of nurses, security officers, engineers, and all manner of positions in a long procession, all from the Enterprise.

Cheng had never before seen such evident loyalty in ever subset of every position on a starship to a captain.

When Captain Kirk came to his seat, he turned to his followers and nodded his head with a steely look in his eye. Every single officer, from Ensign to Commander, saluted. They then took their seats as one.

It was time for the trial to resume.

"I now call this trial to be back in session," Judge Fayden declared after the jury had been seated. He rang the small bronze bell thrice before continuing. "I now call Officer Seamus Finnegan back to the stand."

The door opened once more, and Finnegan came to his designated spot.

Fayden nodded to the table where Spock and Uhura sat. "Prosecutors, at this time you may call another witness if you so choose or allow Mr. Mendlesson to begin his examinations."

Uhura stood from her seat. "Thank you, sir…Your Honor, we call Ensign Pavel Chekhov to the stand."

An excited squeak was heard throughout the court, and a tiny Russian officer scrambled from the front row of witnesses to the stand in a frenzied whirl.

"Reportink fore duty, sir." He gave an enthusiastic salute.

"Pavel Andreievich Chekhov. Serial Number: 656-5827B. Service Rank: Ensign. Position: Ship's Navigator. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: Award of Valor, Decorated by Starfleet Operations."

Smoothly stepping up to the stand, Uhura handed Chekhov a PADD. "Ensign Chekhov, you will find archived information detailing a wide range of different ships' marks compiled by yourself."

"Yessir, zis ees zee same stardate as zee keednapping, I recognaize ze flight patternz qvite vell. Werification of zis eez on backup driwe, no?"

"Yes, all of this information corresponds with the records of Starfleet Command as well as the archives aboard the Enterprise. Ensign, is the only course on this archive that of the Enterprise?"

"Nyet, zere are approximately fowrty sheeps on here, sir."

"Why?"

"All uf zem had somesink to do wiz zee Enterprise on zat day, sir. I recorded awl of zem as I do on a reguular beiseez unt charted zeir marks accordingly."

"What were the majority of the ships doing?"

"Recowwering ze Enterprise from ze face uff Noo Mars, unt helpink ze wounded reach safety frum ze rubble, sir."

"And which ship is the most essential in this archive?"

"Ze _Sealion_, sir."

"And what are some of the statistics on this ship?"

"Eet eez a cargo sheep, vun zat hass no license to trawel in Federation space during zis time. Ze license expired seweral years ago. Ze ownersheep eez currently under Seamus Finnegan, but eet vas prewiously under ze care uf ze trading company Regent."

"You tracked it?"

"Da, I tracked all ze vay frum startink point to finish on zis stardate."

"To clarify, when you say 'finish,' do you mean the end of the pursuit as in the face of New Mars, or the intended destination of the ship?"

"Both, sir. I haff both of zem heere."

"Could you elaborate on your findings, Ensign?"

"Da, sir." Chekhov clicked on his PADD for a moment, scrolling through millions of pieces of information in a millisecond. He hooked it up to the cord handed to him by Uhura, and in a flash the information on the two-inch screen in front of Chekhov was two hundred inches across before the entire court.

The picture was in 3D, floating above everyone's heads in an intricate spiderweb of shimmering threads shooting through each other. Every single one of the threads was a charted path of a starship.

Chekhov clicked at his PADD, fingers dashing from one key to another, and line after line flickered out until only two were left. Labels popped up like flat balloons, dictating ship name and mark. The labels ran up and down the threads, indicating progression through time via stardate. One of them was the Enterprise; the other the _Sealion_, connected to a point but breaking off into two divergent paths where the Enterprise's path intersected.

"Da, so. Heer, eez ze _Sealion_'s oreeginal mark," Chekhov highlighted the thread in bright pink above everyone's heads. A few key planets and starbases popped up, all labeled, as well. "vich runs frum coordinates 00 by 05 to 10 N, -23.0 by 13.65 by vay of 35 mark 10. More specificawy, frum Sol, or ze planet Earth, to Starbase 12."

A tiny pink model of the Sealion popped up and sat on Earth. The model traced the highlighted mark all the way to Starbase 12, winding its way past Sirius and what had been Vulcan to sit on the blue triangle-shaped starbase.

"I traced to ze startingk point, ant found ze takeoff point at Earth's Common Port A Lot 260. Zen I traced to ze endpoint, veech vas Starbase 12 Port D Lot 496."

As he continued typing on the PADD, Chekhov started humming. The glowing threads of marks and starships shifted ever so slightly as they began to grow in size, zooming in on Earth. The _Sealion_ was back near its starting position, heading in a frozen beeline away from Earth.

"Ze Enterprise herself eentercepted ze _Sealion_'s course after approximately feefteen hours unt followed frum orbit."

A silver little Enterprise popped up, orbiting the Earth which was now roughly the size of a baby elephant. The trail it left was neon green.

Chekhov clicked a button, time sped up, and the ships took off. The _Sealion_ buzzed forward, and the Enterprise followed its course by breaking orbit. Earth disappeared as it moved out of sight.

"Unt at coordinates 20.8 by 12.0, ze Enterprise collided vith ze _Sealion_."

The silver Enterprise, which had come to nearly a standstill, suddenly sped up, catching up readily with the constant speed of the _Sealion_. Just as the Enterprise was closing in, it sped up even more, and the two ships collided. At that moment, the model image froze.

"Zen ze resultink differences in bulk, speed, propulsion, unt course caused both ze Enterprise unt ze Sealion to hit ze planet New Mars in ze system Deneva."

The model zoomed out until the star system was visible. With a click, the ships began to move again, going straight for the planet labeled 'New Mars.' They impacted the side.

"So! As you can see, ze course uf ze Sealion vuz altered frum its original mark to hit zis planet. Qvite accidental frum all sides."

Switching her attention from the 3D model to Chekhov, Uhura walked up to the stand. "Thank you, Ensign. Very concise and easy to understand."

Chekhov beamed. He was always being told by this person or that person that all of his explanations were much too complex to be explanations. And that every explanation of his needed thirty or so explanations to explain that. And so on. So being understandable was quite the compliment.

"No more further questions, Your Honor." Uhura brusquely sat down. Fayden glanced at the defense. "Attorney…?"

"No questions, Your Honor."

"Ensign."

Chekhov left the stand and made his way back to his seat next to Sulu, grinning all the while as if he'd been on his favorite hologram episode.

"I now call Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu to the stand."

Sulu looked around him with wide, blinking eyes, as if he couldn't believe he was being called up. Maybe they had meant someone else with the same name…? Chekhov elbowed him with a grin, and Sulu understood. He eased out of his seat and made his way to the stand with his back straight and tall.

"…Lieutenant, your ID, please?" Uhura held out her hand expectantly for his card.

"Oh! Yeah, one second…" Blushing, he quickly shuffled around in his pockets, and pulled out a yellow chip card. He carefully placed it into her palm.

"Hikaru Sulu. Serial Number: S674-328R. Service Rank: Lieutenant. Position: Helmsman. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: Award of Valor, Starfleet Citation of Outstanding Maneuver."

Turning from her table to face the jury, Uhura said, "One solar day ago, the starship Enterprise, the flagship of the Federation of Planets, pursued the cargo ship the _Sealion_ when the Enterprise was in dire need of repair. Lieutenant Sulu, what was your role in this mission?"

He jumped a little. " – Sir, I was the helmsman on duty."

"Please explain the buildup of events according to you."

"Right…" Sulu thought deeply for a moment. "…I guess… It began earlier that morning. Most crewmen were on planet for leave, but I stayed onboard the Enterprise with the rest of the skeleton crew. We'd just been informed that there had been an unidentified murder and that the Captain was currently missing.

"We tried checking the Captain's lifesigns, and they indicated that he had been terminated. For some time, the entire bridge was under the impression that the Captain had been murdered."

"Why was that?" Uhura cut in.

"It turned out later that Captain Kirk's combadge had been put on the murder victim's corpse. The one found, what's his name, MacArthur."

"Go on." she prompted.

"Then we had multiple communications that assured us this wasn't the case, and that Captain Kirk was instead on the _Sealion_."

"And that is when the chase began?"

"No ma'am, after we received a communication from Captain Kirk from the Sealion. He'd made some rudimentary communications device in his capture and through targeting his signal we were able to firmly lock on his position and conclude he was indeed on the _Sealion_."

"How did you proceed to pursue the _Sealion_?"

"We… well, we were planning to intercept it with a number of other ships, but that wasn't possible since no other ships were cleared until after the pursuit. Instead, we followed the _Sealion_'s path directly, beginning at the speed at Warp 6 in order to catch up but then slowed to impulse engines because of the problems down in Engineering.

"Somehow, and I have no idea how, Scotty got the engines running for warp speed and we were able to immediately catch up to the _Sealion_ at a whopping Warp 8 – unfortunately, I wasn't expecting the surge of total power to Warp 9.5 and had the throttle all the way up."

"How did that affect the pursuit?"

Sulu's eyes stonily faced forward, his jaw tightening with guilt. "The Enterprise crashed the _Sealion_ into the planetside of Mars."

Uhura's eyes softened. "And after the collision?"

"Though the ship was severely damaged, there were no fatal injuries, Lieutenant. And we got Captain Kirk back safely, and arrested that villain Finnegan." The corner of Sulu's mouth curled up in triumph.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Sulu; no more questions."

Fayden turned his gaze to the defense – "Attorney, any questions for the witness?"

Mendlesson nodded his head eagerly. A squeaky yet oily voice issued out. "Yessir, I do have questions for the witness."

Sulu shifted his weight uncomfortably. He hadn't prepared for any of this; only his admittedly romanticized memory was backing him up here. He scanned the crowd that was staring at him as the attorney readied himself with a number of papers. His gaze caught with Chekhov's, who was smiling excitedly.

_Probably thinks it's the coolest thing ever to be up on the witness stand_, Sulu thought with an irrepressible smile.

Chekhov threw a not-so-subtle thumbs up at him, and with a roll of his eyes, Sulu returned it.

Eyes arriving back at Mendlesson, Sulu was ready. Before, he was confused and unprepared; now, he was ready to take on this smarmy scoundrel. He'd been through much worse than this with Chekhov on the bridge of the Enterprise.

"Mr… Sula, is that right?" Mendlesson was peering at a piece of looseleaf paper where he'd scribbled things down.

"I am Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, sir." He folded his fingers together and his shoulders relaxed.

"Right. Well," Mendlesson trained his sharp, beady eyes on Sulu as his mousy voice keened through the courtroom. "If I'm not mistaken, did not the Enterprise collide with the _Sealion_?"

"Yes, it did, sir."

"And you were the one driving it? The ship?"

Sulu looked a bit surprised at his terminology. "Uh, I was manning helm control, yessir."

"Then isn't the collision of the Enterprise into the _Sealion_ technically your fault, Mr. Sula?"

For a moment, Sulu lost his composure. A bloodcurdling glare shot into Mendlesson until Sulu caught himself. The steely attorney at law recoiled as if he was at swordpoint.

Sulu glanced back at Chekhov, then Kirk, and took a breath. Then he shook his head minutely.

"No sir."

"Please explain this logical contradiction to me, Mr. Sula."

"Well, had Finnegan not captured our Captain and proceeded to evade any attempts at communications and forced the Enterprise into high-speed pursuit, the Enterprise would have still been at port undergoing repairs and – "

"But so what?" Mendlesson snidely interrupted. "Aren't people still responsible for what mistakes they make, even if they hadn't helped create the problem?"

Nostrils flaring, Sulu had to make a conscious effort to keep his voice level. "Mistakes, sir, are relative. I would say that the biggest mistake made here is the choice Finnegan made to capture Captain Kirk and think he could get away with it."

"Yes, yes, very poetic, but you're avoiding the point, Mr. Sula." Mendlesson looked patronizingly down at him. "Please, if your mother made you a nasty-tasting drink, and when you took a sip and dropped the cup and it smashed into pieces, would the broken glass be your mother's fault for making you a fish smoothie?"

Sulu's face hardened, and a faint angry blush flashed across his cheeks. His voice rose ever so slightly. "Sir, Finnegan was an officer on the USS Enterprise for over three years. He knew that the engines were in dire need of repair. He chose that time, when the ship was incredibly defunct, to attempt a crime so incredibly heinous that he knew the crew would not settle for less than to regain its captain without a fight. He knew he would be inciting more danger to not only the Enterprise, but its crew as well."

The smooth, slick attorney clucked his tongue and wiped his greasy hair back in one long motion. "If the Enterprise was in such a state, wouldn't Finnegan assume that the ship wouldn't go after him? Wouldn't he then be trying to save the Enterprise from damages and its crew from injury? What ship would risk so many lives, all for one crewmember?"

The Lieutenant rigidly sat tall, his mouth a grim slash, his black eyes hard as rocks. He was deadly serious. "The USS Enterprise would, sir."

"Really. How could Finnegan have possibly known that the Enterprise would have gone after him in that state? What _proof_ could he have had? Maybe he thought that the Enterprise would be more logical about the situation at hand and send another ship to recover Captain Kirk."

"Impossible," Sulu stated. "The Enterprise had personally saved Officer Finnegan in a similar situation only one year ago."

Mendlesson stopped. His mouth contorted into a fleeting scowl. Obviously he hadn't wanted that particular piece of information known to the jury, even if he had had any previous knowledge of it. He probably hadn't.

Sulu didn't care that Mendlesson hadn't asked a question yet. He was going to say what must be said. "Finnegan _knew_ that we would save Captain Kirk, he knew we would _never_ – "

"No more further questions!" Mendlesson cut Sulu off in a shrill screech.

He stalked back to his spot next to Finnegan.

"Lieutenant Sulu, dismissed," Fayden said, inclining his head towards the inflamed officer.

Sulu rose with a quiet power, and, thrumming with injustice, made his way back to Chekhov.

"Prosecutor?" Judge Fayden indicated Uhura with a flick of his head.

She nodded her head. "We would like to call Chief of Security Giotto to the stand once more."

Giotto stood from his seat, ready with a passion as he moved from his place to the stand. The machine read off his information again, and Uhura stepped before him to begin.

She straightened up and took a deep breath.

Every word was careful, and the pronunciation was perfect. Uhura's sentences wafted through the air and slowly made their way towards the stand. "Lieutenant Commander Giotto, when you were describing the investigation of the death of Officer MacArthur, you mentioned that Captain James T. Kirk had been taken from the Enterprise and therefore diverted your attention and your actions."

"Yessir, I did, sir."

"Please explain why you were so diverted from a murder investigation."

"Well, sir, the priorities of Starfleet Security include the safety of the officers and the protection of life. As Officer MacArthur was already deceased, it was decided that the priority of Enterprise Security at that time was to be focused on the Captain's plight."

"How did you begin?"

"Ma'am?"

"What did you start working on first to regain Captain Kirk after you were first informed?"

Giotto thought for a moment. "We compiled information on the immediate status of Captain Kirk known to us, which was extremely limited. Basically all that was known to us was that he had been taken on board the cargo ship the _Sealion_."

Uhura flipped her ponytail back in one smooth movement. "And your next step?"

"Next we traced his schedule and figured out when he was the most vulnerable to an attack or capture like this. We determined that he had been taken the night before after he had clocked out for leave."

"How did you conclude who had taken him from the Enterprise?"

"First we looked for a history of the _Sealion_, which had little information but provided us with a certain pattern of behavior based on the places it had been. Comparing the times and places that the _Sealion_ had visited during shore leave for the Enterprise crew members gave us several options for a suspect."

"How were you certain that the perpetrator was a part of the Enterprise crew?"

Giotto paused. "We weren't. But given the fact that no other transports were made onto the Enterprise since it had docked except for crewmembers, we assumed that it was probably a crewmember already aboard ship."

"And who did you suspect?"

"Seamus Finnegan, sir. He was the only crewmember to match the transport records and the schedule of the _Sealion_."

"How did you act next?"

"We took stock of the ship's capabilities through Engineering and the options we had through storage of weapons to see what our options were. Then we took a look at the blueprints of the _Sealion_ and came up with several strategies. We then reported options to Commander Spock and informed him of our suspicions of Officer Finnegan."

"And the prisoner Slistastostas?"

"He had already escaped by that point in time."

"Lieutenant Commander," Uhura continued after a moment of pause, "had you already connected Officer Finnegan to the murder of Officer MacArthur?"

"Yes ma'am, we had just discovered DNA evidence of Finnegan being at the scene of the crime moments before we learned that Captain Kirk had been taken hostage."

"How would you describe succinctly the actions Finnegan had taken from the murder of Officer MacArthur to the capture of Captain Kirk?"

"After Finnegan had set Slistastostas on MacArthur, he slipped through the connecting door of Commander Spock's room into the Captain's room. He was lying in wait until the Captain returned to his quarters and then, after jumping, subduing, and beating him for a period of time, instigated an off-ship transport onto the _Sealion_."

"About how long was the captain under the control of Officer Finnegan?"

"Hmmm, we're not sure about the total amount of time since we aren't certain when Captain Kirk was captured, but we do know that Kirk was restrained and severely beaten in his quarters aboard the Enterprise for at least twelve hours, and was transported onto the _Sealion_ for a total of three hours. At the least, fifteen hours, sir."

"Why was Kirk not immediately taken to the _Sealion_?"

"The transporters were offline at that point in time, sir. Finnegan had to wait until someone was at least on shift to officially start up the program."

"And he was then beamed to the Sealion."

"Yes ma'am. The records check out."

"Who was on duty for manning the transporter that morning?"

"…Finnegan, ma'am."

"Was this purely coincidence?"

"No, ma'am, Finnegan had requested the morning shift."

"Has he done this before? Requested manning the transporter?"

"Yes ma'am, he's frequently requested different details in overtime shifts."

"And how was Captain Kirk recovered, in the end? Did the Enterprise beam Security Officers aboard the _Sealion_?"

"No sir, we relocated to the transporter room to wait until Captain Kirk and Officer Finnegan were beamed onto the platform, sir. We then arrested Finnegan."

"And the Captain?"

"He was given immediate medical attention by Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel, sir."

Uhura face turned grim as her voice went soft. "What was the condition of the Captain?"

Giotto's voice cracked as he stumbled through the memory. "He was… it was bad, ma'am. I mean, I've… I've seen some bad stuff, but Captain Kirk… It was the worst I'd ever seen. I thought… Well. I just knew he'd be all right, because Captain Kirk would never let his crew down, but goddamn, sir, he was hurting pretty damn bad, if you'd excuse my language, sir."

Uhura waved the curses away with a light swipe of her hand.

"And Finnegan?" Her tone was cold now.

Giotto's tone darkened with contempt. "He had a few bruises and some bleeding, that's all I saw."

"And you arrested him right away?"

"Yes ma'am, we charged him immediately."

"With what?"

"With the murder of Officer MacArthur and the capture of Captain Kirk, ma'am."

"How did you reconcile having both Slistastostas and Officer Finnegan as suspects for the murder of MacArthur?"

"We figured that they were both involved, since we found Slistastostas soaked with blood and Finnegan's DNA at the scene."

"Did you think that there was a connection between the Captain's capture and Slistastostas' escape from the brig?"

"We had thought so at first, but after we compiled the evidence, we determined differently. Although the murder of MacArthur was directly linked to the capture of the Captain, as it gave Finnegan the time to implement his plans, the escape of Slistastostas from the brig was unconnected. Since he had been taken to the brig, Slistastostas had no communications with Finnegan and he had no memory of what had occurred. Though he willingly went to the brig after we arrested him, Slistastostas had reverted back to the mentality of non-aggression."

"Would you sustain that Slistastostas was incapable of controlling his actions at the time of the murder?"

"Yessir."

"Would you sustain that Slistastostas, though evidently involved in the murder, is not the murderer?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Would you sustain that Slistastostas is therefore inculpable for any action taken during the time of the murder?"

"Yes, I would."

"Would you sustain that Slistastostas is less of a murderer and more of a murder weapon in this case?"

"Yes ma'am, I would."

"Would you sustain that Officer Finnegan was capable of controlling Slistastostas at the time of the murder?"

"Yes_sir_."

"Would you _further_ sustain that Officer Finnegan is the murderer of Officer MacArthur?"

"Yes I _do_, ma'am."

"And would you sustain that the cause of the capture of Captain Kirk is _also_ that of Officer Finnegan?"

"Yes _ma'am_!"

"Thank you, Officer Giotto. No further questioning."

Uhura walked back to the prosecution table and took her seat.

Judge Fayden looked towards Finnegan and Mendlesson. "Attorney, do you have any questions for the witness?"

Mendlesson jumped up this time, and his shrill, high shriek shot through the courtroom. "Yes, Your Honor, I do, I do have questions for the witness!"

Fayden raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead, then, Attorney."

Mendlesson cleared his throat. "Lieutenant Commander," he began with a tinny, high voice, "is it really possible to state that the creature Slistastostas was a murder weapon? On the contrary, is not Slistastostas a being onto itself that can choose whether or not it can perform an action?"

Bones looked up sharply.

Giotto slid his hands together as he stared down at Mendlesson.

"It is _quite_ possible to state." There was pointedly no 'sir' at the end of his statement. "We had been previously informed of the state of Slistastostas' mind as a result of the Engineering incident earlier that week. We were aware of the polarity of Slistastostas' mind and how his behavior was between that of a polite, intellectual soul and an animalistic killing machine. There was no space between the two and Slistastostas was not in control of when or how his mind switched gears. Finnegan had placed Slistastostas into the room of Commander Spock with Officer MacArthur as per the evidence of his breaking into the room before the murder occurred."

Bones shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms.

Mendlesson smiled smugly. "But Lieutenant Commander, how could Officer Finnegan have controlled such a highly advanced creature as Slistastostas? There is no possible way that he would have the knowledge to be able to do so with his level of Engineering expertise."

Giotto blinked.

"…I don't know how. But I know he did it," Giotto caught himself just before he said 'sir.'

"If you don't know how he could have possibly done it," Mendlesson was sneering now, "isn't it possible that he _didn't_ do it?"

Giotto sat up, miffed. "But we've placed him at the scene. He's definitely involved in the conspiracy of murder."

"But he didn't do the murdering, isn't that right? Slistastostas did."

To this Giotto had no answer.

Mendlesson smirked. "No further questioning, Your Honor."

Giotto stepped back to his seat with dignity as Mendlesson sauntered back to the defense table.

Fayden barely got out "Prosecutor – " before Uhura had leapt from her seat and cried out triumphantly, "We now call Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott to the stand!"

Hearing his name called, Scotty's ears pricked up. He smiled widely with a buoyant "Aye, lass!" He was in the first row of witnesses, sitting next to Chekhov and Bones, and easily bounced from his chair up to the front of the courtroom.

As he crossed the aisle and handed over his ID, everyone present could see that his red sleeves were stained with oddly colored chemicals. A bright green splotch here, a neon purple glow over there.

With a wink in Uhura's general direction, Scotty took his seat.

The machine rattled off his card information.

"Montgomery Scott. Serial Number: SE-19754-T. Service Rank: Lieutenant Commander. Position: Chief Engineer. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: Decorated by Starfleet Engineers, Award of Valor, Flores Peace Prize of Ingenuity, Interspatial Association Commendation of Honor."

Scotty scratched his nose, embarrassed but still grinning. "Tha's me."

Uhura tried to force down the muscles that were making her smile. She had to look ruthless, but she couldn't do that when Scotty was being so insufferably _cute_.

"Lieutenant Commander Scott…" She still couldn't quite keep a straight face.

"Jest call me Scotty, then, lass." He winked again. "Twon't do no harm."

Uhura relaxed into a smile. "Right, then… Scotty. Were you involved in the study of the chemical and anatomical makeup of Slistastostas?"

"Aye, tha' Ah was."

"Could you describe your findings?"

Scotty mentally went through an entire database of information he'd gleaned from the experimentation on Slistastostas and catalogued everything into wee little groups.

He leaned forward with eagerness.

"Well. Twas a sight to see. Firs' Ah studied th' Heart, which was a piece of work, Ah grant ye. Actually made me own copy to adjust efficiencies in the Enterprise meself. Impressive little babe, tha.

"Then Ah moved on frum th' basic coronary functions t' th' neural system, an' the connections b'tween th' machinations an' th' signs o' life were quite enlightenin', specially for those who're interested in th' finicky medical sciences an' all, like the good Doctor here." Scotty indicated Bones, who flushed at the sudden attention as the entire audience zoned in on him.

Uhura spoke up. "Did you discover the polar sides of Slistastostas through this procedural experimentation?"

The room focused back on Scotty, eyes flicking back two by two, for the most part. There were some observers with up to eight eyes, but they were in the minority.

"Aye, aye. Tis pretty simple once ye get the chemical complexities sorted out all right. Works jes' laiyke uh machine."

"And were you also able to distinguish what triggered the shifts from one polarity to the other?"

Scotty wagged his head from side to side. "Well, lass… It isn' tha', exactly, then…"

Uhura's forehead creased in confusion. "Then how would you describe it, Scotty?" She sounded genuinely curious.

"Hmm, well. Ah would say tha' the transfusion of mechanical neurons, say, is less a matter o' triggerin' an' more a matter o' proper stimulation through mechanized hormonal activity."

"And what exactly was this controlling hormone?"

"There are two of em, lass. One is the positron and the other is the antiproton. Sudden and massive influx o' either o' these particles results in a shift in behavioral patterns and response mechanisms. Ah believe the spin an' the totality o' combustion result in differentiating particulars within th' subsets o' the behavioral patterns."

Uhura looked a little taken aback. "And how do you know this, Scotty?"

Scotty grinned, as if he'd been waiting for this exact question. "This!" He held up the mysterious cord from the last session, seemingly from nowhere. "Evidence W, if ye'd remember, then."

"Yes, this is one of the objects taken from Engineering by Officer Finnegan."

"Aye, lass."

"Isn't it a Starfleet certified piece of machinery?"

"Nay, i' taint." Scotty held it up even higher. "Tis a piece of alien machinery t' th' Federation. Twas found on an away mission o' some sort and stockpiled inta Engineering storage fer further study. "

"Do you know what it is?"

Scotty cocked his head, considering. "Ah may not knaew wha' it's called by it's makers, but Ah knaew wha' it does jest fahyne. Personally, Ah call it the quasi-varied response power application mechanism, on account o' th' variable method of usin' th' antiprotons n' positrons t' influence th' mode o' th' main drive. Call it th' quavarpam fer short."

Uhura tried it out. "The quavarpam?"

"Aye, quavarpam. Has a nice ring t' it, dunnae?"

"This is the cord itself?"

"Nay, tis the full system o' the cord connected with a wee applicator of antiprotons and positrons."

"Okay, I see. So you're saying that with a quavarpam, someone would be able to control the Slistastostas' mainframe."

"Aye, lass. Or rather, more specifically, th' equalizin' chemo-tronic modulator of the mainframe is controlled directly by tha' quavarpam, which would then control the state of Slistas' positronic net pattern."

"Wait, what is the equalizing chemo-tronic modulator?"

"Ah, well. Tis an algorithmic function in Slistastostas' brain tha' regulates the state of mind and basic net pattern. Keeps the polarities in sync and properly balanced an' all."

"I see. How do you use the quavarpam to affect the modulator?"

"Ye jest connect it t' th' electro-positronic emitter an' th' other side t' th' modulator o' the brain and let either electrons or positrons flow on through it."

"Which tronic does what?"

"Th' antiprotons force th' chemo-tronic modulator into a defensive pattern o' violence an' other basic instincts while th' positrons force it into a purely passive state, as evidenced by the experimentation done on Slistas."

"Is the quavarpam easy to use?"

Scotty scratched his head. "Aye, lass, almost too easy t' use."

Uhura almost snorted through her nose, but managed to keep her composure. "I meant, Scotty, whether or not it is easy for low-level crewman to utilize."

"Aye, aye, lass. Any man with any level of sense could flip a switch from antiproton t' positron. Ah believe th' Loch Nes could do th' trick if given the freedom o' flipper."

Uhura struggled, but managed to avoid cracking up on the spot. Her face was a bit strained nonetheless. "What about connecting the cord to the creature? How difficult is that procedure?"

"Tis as easy as pluggin' uh drain, miss. The port is open t' th' aeir, an' has matching grills with th' quavarpam's cord."

"And how, Mr. Scott, would a low-level crewman with little education on complex machinery be able to implement the directions you describe with alien technology?"

Scotty hemmed. "Ah assume tha' 'e would've had directions frum another source."

"And did any other Starfleet officers officially know of the capabilities of this quavarpam until you yourself discovered its properties?"

"Nay, an' Ah jus' figured it all out today, lass."

"So what would this other source be?"

"Hmm, Ah'd hafta say th' lads tha' made it."

"And since we don't know who made it…?"

Scotty's brow furrowed. "Well, then, lass, we've got uh bit o' uh wee problem, then."

"What is this problem, Scotty?"

"We've got uh supplier o' relatively unknown technology backin' and informin' our wee lad Finnegan. One we're not particularly knowledgeable about, an' tha' has superbly refined engineerin' techniques. One tha' can control an organism laiyke Mr. Slistas without uh hardy bottle o' Scotch on th' line."

"And would there be any clues to finding the creators of the quavarpam that you can clearly distinguish?"

"Nay, lass, naewt frum uh purely Engineerin' perspective. Ah've never seen anythin' laiyke i' before, even considerin' all th' new technologies th' Silver Lady has seen in the past three years."

"Thank you, Mr. Scott. No more further questions."

Scotty sprang from the stand with enthusiasm before sitting back down, realizing that the defense now had the right to question him. Uhura nodded to Fayden, who nodded back. He then turned to Mendlesson. "Attorney?"

Mendlesson looked a bit crumpled in the face, as if he'd been hit in the face with a frying pan that still had a boiling egg in it. He was pointedly staring at his trembling hands, avoiding the killer glare Finnegan was burning into his back.

"No, Your Honor, no questions for the witness."

Uhura hadn't even bothered to sit back down, firmly staying in her position as interrogator. "Your Honor, we now call Doctor McCoy to the stand."

With a sigh, Bones heaved himself to his feet and grumbled the entire way to the witness stand. Which, of course, made Jim crack a smile and nearly snigger, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Doctor Leonard McCoy. Serial Number: R465-258SS. Service Rank: Lieutenant Commander. Position: Ship's Surgeon. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: Legion of Honor, Award of Valor, Twice Decorated by Starfleet Surgeons."

Instead of questioning Bones right away, Uhura addressed the jury. "Doctor McCoy not only has substantial commendations from Starfleet but also impressive medical diplomas from several famous universities such as the University of Mississippi, Johns Hopkins University, and Yale University. On top of all this, he has years of experience in first-response, extreme medical care in several internationally renowned hospitals before his enlistment in Starfleet. After which, he quickly gained high rank and commendations through exceptional work in the medical field for Starfleet."

Bones raised an eyebrow. He was pretty sure nobody _else_ got a full rehashing of _their_ résumés. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes for the sake of professionalism, but it looked like he pulled a muscle in his face doing it.

Uhura raised her eyebrow right back, and made a face at him before turning back to the jury. "I would like the court to recognize Doctor McCoy as a reliable medical consultant in this case."

Fayden nodded. "He is so recognized."

"Thank you, Your Honor." She gave a sharp nod in Fayden's direction. "Now, Doctor McCoy…"

"Yes_sir_, Lieutenant, _ma'am_." McCoy hinted at his Southern drawl because of all the repressed sarcasm.

Giving up a bit of a grin, Uhura responded with a bit of her own laced sarcasm. "_Doc_tor, Lieutenant Commander, _sir_." With a small sigh, she started on her line of questioning, her eyes turning serious. "The Enterprise has been through its share of difficult medical circumstances, has it not?"

"Yes it has, too many in my opinion." Bones huffed through his nose. "All those diseases we've encountered on random planets, I tell ya…"

"Despite the difficult health conditions of being on a starship," Uhura hastily interrupted before the lecture could properly begin, "the crew is generally in relatively good health, are they not?"

Bones paused for a second, unable to refute this claim. "Yes, well," he huffed. "Despite themselves, they're all kept in check."

"When are there usually influxes of patients?"

"Hmm, well when the crew catches infections from alien planets, the sickness usually passes through everyone like wildfire. Another common time for people to be admitted is during or after an away mission because of an injury. I'd say the common denominator is the unknown planetside."

"And how is the medical response to these disasters?"

"Well, if the communicators are working, an' the beaming thing is working, and every other… machine is operating at full capacity, and the wounded are able to be transported properly to Sickbay, then I'd say just fine."

"So to provide top-notch medical care, you must depend on communications and transportation."

"Yes ma'am."

"How would you consider the conditions on the Enterprise on Stardate 4807, concerning you position?"

"In terms of necessities?"

"Yes."

Crossing his arms, Bones contemplated for a moment. "Heaven knows we'd just gotten out of a situation tougher than tarnation, so we were short on supplies in Sickbay. That wasn't in our favor, though we called in for more supplies after we returned to Earth. The ship itself was fallin' apart when we were after that son of a gun Finnegan, the beamin' thing was all busted an' the communications were shaky."

"Would you say that this was the worst condition for the Enterprise to be in, given the impending injuries you would have to treat?"

"It ain't the worst, Lieutenant. It's never the worst. The only time when I can say that is when I can't treat my patients at all."

"But it was highly unfavorable to, say, the Enterprise in perfect condition?"

"Yes, ma'am, highly."

"So what happened when Captain Kirk was beamed to the Enterprise? What actions did you take?"

"I immediately rushed him to Sickbay, diagnosing him the entire way there." Bones was silent, remembering. "It was so bad I couldn't treat him anywhere else but there."

"How bad was it, Doctor? What were his injuries?"

"They were extensive, believe me." Bones looked up. "After being brutally beaten for about twelve hours, Jim was severely injured in the crash on New Mars by falling debris. He escaped from the crushing pieces of the ship around him by wrenching out his own tibia and using it as a lever. He then commenced, in his injured state, to move about the _Sealion_ in order to procure some form of safety until he could be rescued, aggravating his wounds and inducing a large loss of blood despite a limited attempt at medical treatment. He was then shot right before he was transported onto the Enterprise with Finnegan. The complete medical transcript of his diagnosis is too long to be read here, and is on file with the jury. In effect, one of the most damaged patients I have ever treated that has survived. Had he been transported to me ten minutes later than he was, he would have died."

"And he is here today, is he not?"

"Our very own Captain James T. Kirk, ma'am. He's healed up quite a bit over the past twenty hours."

"Doctor McCoy, from a medical perspective, how can you prove that Finnegan is the perpetrator of violence upon Captain Kirk?"

"His goddamn DNA is all over the place, ingrained into Jim from beating him so damn hard; there are also multiple fingerprints and other chemical signatures that can readily be associated with Finnegan," said Bones gruffly. "The evidence is clear from the medical records that Finnegan done did it, ma'am."

"Thank you, Doctor. No further questions."

"Attorney Mendlesson?"

"…No questions."

Bones sauntered down from the stand to fall back into his place next to Jim. Jim slapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. They had a silent conversation with momentary glances before turning attentions back to the trial.

"Lieutenant, would you care to call another witness to the stand?"

Taking a deep breath, Uhura prepared herself. Her eyes flickered towards Spock, who nodded slowly but surely. "Yes, Your Honor, we would.

"We would like to call Captain James T. Kirk to the stand."

Jim stood easily and with grace, taking his time. The folds of his Starfleet slacks tumbled from creases into a smooth drop, and with purposeful measure, he readjusted his cufflinks in two effortless, stylish motions.

Folding his two hands behind his back in standard Starfleet ease, Kirk began his way towards the front of the court. Step by step, he advanced closer and closer to Finnegan. Each step was a sharp impact on the paneled wood floor, giving off a clipped, refined sound of well-polished boots.

His limp was evident to the entire court.

Kirk took the liberty of inputting his own ID card into the computer.

He finally reached his place in the chair, and just as Kirk sat in the captain's chair on the bridge of the Enterprise, so did he here. The level of respect he commanded was instantaneous and natural, from the way he sat to the look in his eyes.

"Captain James T. Kirk. Serial Number SC937-0176CEZ. Service Rank: Captain. Position: Starship Command. Current Assignment: USS Enterprise. Commendations: Palm Leaf of Axanarpes Mission, Grankite Order of Tactic, Class of Excellence, Presteres Ribbon of Commendation, Classes First and Second, Award of Valor, Medal of Honor, Silver Palm with Cluster, Starfleet Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry, Terragite Order of Heroism – "

Mendlesson shot up. "Thank you, computer, we are all well aware of the great accomplishments of James T. Kirk."

The computer stopped reciting, which was good because it seemed to be running out of breath.

Uhura stared daggers from across the room. "If the Attorney would keep order."

Mendlesson continued. "If it would please the court - "

Fayden banged his gavel. "Please, Attorney. Order in the court." He then looked to Uhura. "Prosecutor?"

"Computer, please continue."

" – Interspatial Recommendation, Qualor's Most Privileged, Accordance of Honor, Particular Memorandum of Consequence, Medal of Conciliatory Respect, Nobel Peace Prize, Key to the Star System Rator – "

"Thank you, computer." Uhura had one hand on her hip and a smug smile across her face. Again, the computer stopped with a wheeze. "This is Captain James T. Kirk, a man who at the age of twenty-five became the youngest starship captain in the history of the Federation, and not only that, but the leader of the very flagship, the USS Enterprise."

She turned to Kirk with a smile that touched her eyes with sincerity. "Captain, how are you feeling?"

His teeth were pearl white as he grinned. This smile was like an animal baring its fangs. "So good I can't believe it was only yesterday. Fantastic. Magnificent. Stupendous."

"That's good to hear, sir."

He inclined his head and closed his eyes, indicating for her to move on with the examination.

"Captain Kirk, could you please recount the events of your capture and torture that occurred from Stardates 4806 and 4807?"

"Certainly, Lieutenant." His hand brushed against his face thoughtfully. "I returned to my quarters at 1800 hours on Stardate 4806 from my shift, where I was directly assaulted by Officer Finnegan and beaten into unconsciousness by premeditated weapons. For an unknown period of time, roughly estimated to be twelve hours, I was ruthlessly beaten by Finnegan. Transportation to the _Sealion_ occurred at the start of the morning shift, at 700 hours, in which I was dragged by Finnegan to the transporter. Once on board, I was bound and placed in a holding bay and left alone. Through my own devices, I was able to cut the bindings, create a communication device to connect with the Enterprise, escape the bay, throw off Finnegan, find ample resources, make my way to the cockpit, and send the Enterprise exact information of my position and the ship's mark and heading. I was, however, unable to change the set mark.

"After the collision, I was trapped under falling bulkheads and shattered stations, and in order to get out, I had to forcefully remove my own leg bone to get my arm free. I took the bone with me as I crawled from the cockpit to a storage unit, in which I set up a strategic base, attempted to give myself medical attention, and waited for further assistance from the Enterprise. Finnegan, however, broke through my defenses and got a shot in before help arrived. Directly after, I was beamed directly to the Enterprise, where my awesome Chief Medical Officer took care of me as he always does."

To let it all sink in, a heavy silence fell. Uhura let it happen, waiting for the perfect time to begin again.

"Captain… Twelve hours of abuse is truly extreme. For what purpose did Officer Finnegan so brutally beat you? Did he have a grudge against you?"

To this, Kirk was stone-faced. "I believe so, yes."

"If I may ask… what happened?"

For the first time since he had been called to the stand, Kirk turned to face Finnegan directly, looking him straight in the eye.

"We were cadets together, Lieutenant…" Kirk stared down at the defense as if he were the divine bringer of justice. "…and the pair of us liked to pull creative pranks every once in a while. We were like… partners in crime." The ironic smile that then graced Kirk's lips was eerily pointed.

Finnegan broke eye contact.

"One day, Finnegan crossed the line. He committed an atrocious act against another cadet. He was charged with a court martial where I testified against him as a witness. He was stripped of his placement, had a permanent mark put on his record, and was put into counseling."

Kirk lowered his hand to the arm of the chair and ceased glaring, instead looking off into the far reaches of his mind. "I had, however, thought his animosity had waned, since he had begun working as a crewman on my ship."

As he gazed downwards into his memory, Kirk's eyes were clouded over with pain and sadness. "But it seems that hatred does not heal so easily."

"Captain…" Uhura seemed at a loss for words, which was to be documented in the annals of history. "…What did you testify against Finnegan to impart such hatred?"

Jim's saddened eyes closed for a moment –

((()))

_you betrayed me, you fuck, you goddamn hypocrite, how could you do this to me, we were supposed to be friends, you were the best fucking friend I ever had, and you do the worst thing you can to me, you betray me, and this is all I get, this punishment, and you get nothing for all the shit that you did that I didn't tell nobody, I was good to you, I thought you were going to be good to me too, I can't even tell you how much I hate you, how much I want to strangle you, kill you, embarrass you, how much I can't ever forget what happened here, how much I'll need to explain to my mom, how she'll be disappointed in me for my failure after she worked so hard, after I worked so hard for her to get here, how she'll kick me out of the house, how she'll never lay eyes on me again, how she'll never say she loves me again, how I'll never trust anyone ever again, how you'll just float on by like nothing even happened even though you just ruined my entire life, you, you, you, you _betrayed_ me, you traitor_

((()))

– before he opened them once more, wearied but strong.

"He trapped another cadet in solitary for a period of hours before implementing rudimentary auditory torture techniques. The cadet was almost permanently unhinged from the incident."

"How were you aware of the incident?"

"…" His mouth tightened for a moment in hesitation, but his eyes were intent.

((()))

_Everything was normal, completely and utterly normal about this situation. It was another weekend to relax, and Jim was taking every advantage he could. The pair of them were at the cadet bar, where they usually went, at the one where they had met almost a year ago. They were at their usual table, drinking their usual drinks, having their usual fun. So why was Jim so on edge tonight? What was setting off his radar?_

_He looked all around him, checking all the security details: nothing. There wasn't anything different with Jim either; not even a single demerick this week, nothing new. Not even a girl. The only thing that Jim would have preferred at the moment was to have Bones here too, but that usually didn't happen anyway. Jim turned his sensors to Finnegan._

_Finnegan's outfit was normal, his drink wasn't drugged, his speech was about the norm. What was it…? Something in his eyes wasn't the same, something was a little more desperate, a little more … than usual._

_Then Finnegan earnestly leaned forward, a strange light shining in his eyes, spilling some of his drink on the table, and the hair on the back of Jim's neck prickled._

'_Jimmy boy, I did it! I pulled a great one off! All by myself, this time, and I wasn't even suspected. It was the perfect crime. Lemme tell you, this idea was genius…'_

((()))

"The next night, Finnegan and I were drinking at a bar, and he confessed the episode in its entirety. After we returned to campus, I researched what he had said, found that it was true, and reported him to the authorities immediately afterwards."

"And the consequences of the trial were severe enough to garner such hatred as this?"

Kirk folded his hands together. "It was the fact that I betrayed his confidence that deeply affronted Finnegan; the punishments were of less consequence, but still of merit."

"Was there any attempt at revenge before he became an officer under your authority?"

((()))

'_Jimmy boy, I never figured you for the type.' _

'What_ type? The type that reports crime?'_

'_The type that sells out their friends for a good name, the type that betrays. But I guess you're just as weak as your batshit, greedy stepdad who would sell out anyone for some reputation points. I can understand why your brother couldn't stand living with you anymore. He knew what you were like.'_

'_I never figured you for a torturer. But there we have it. You're a sick, twisted bastard with nothing better to do than drive innocent people nuts!'_

_The first hit came unexpectedly, and it blew Jim back. The blood dripping from his mouth was real, he checked it with his hand. He should have known that this wouldn't have amounted to anything. He'd thought that maybe Finnegan would, well, be normal again, and the two of them could just… go on, like before._

_But the Finnegan before him was not the same. The snarl on his face was stretched and feral, nostrils widening and twitching with animalistic fury. There it was again, that gleam in Finnegan's eye. The one that made Jim's hair stand on end. _

_In solid silence, Jim made a fist._

_In a roar of angry words, Finnegan charged._

((()))

"…After the trial, after he was released, Finnegan called me to meet with me. At first it was a discussion that led to an argument, then an argument that led to a fistfight. It was less revenge and more… a parting of ways."

"And when he joined the Enterprise crew?"

Jim's mouth tightened in disappointment. "I thought…"

((()))

_He had made sure to stop by this particular crewmember in shift. Jim had personally signed him on as a part of his crew, and now he was going to check on him. That was all it was. A check in efficiency._

_The doors flew open, one after another, before Jim was finally on the right deck. His heart was beating through his chest as he neared his target, who was currently curled over a station working on filling out electric forms._

_He took a silent breath, watching the figure before him that was completely unaware of his presence, counting down the milliseconds. _

'…_Officer Finnegan.'_

_The figure turned, and immediately snapped to attention with a salute._

'_Captain!'_

'_At ease, crewman.' Jim's eyes softened. 'How've you been?'_

_Finnegan was momentarily at a loss before, 'I've improved a lot since you last saw me, sir.'_

_Jim smiled. 'Carry on, officer.' He began to leave, and didn't look back._

'_Yessir, Captain, sir!'_

((()))

"…I thought we had made peace, I really did. But all was revealed when I was taken captive. Years of repressed anger showed that night… Nothing had changed, except that the hate had grown stronger."

His intense gaze moving to the prosecution table, Jim looked to Spock in agonizing desperation, who closed his eyes in understanding. The pain evoked by his memories lifted ever so slightly.

"Captain, was the act of Finnegan to take you captive a betrayal?"

Kirk's ferocious attention was once again Uhura's. Roiling aggression was evident, though controlled, in his frame.

"One of the deepest acts of betrayal is that of a crewman to his shipmates. The trust that is fostered between them is inexplicable in its profundity, and Officer Finnegan took advantage of that trust in order to work his foul designs for some sort of twisted vengeance. As I betrayed his confidence as a cadet for the sake of justice, so he betrayed the confidence of the entire Enterprise for the sake of revenge. His betrayal is so complete, so _absolute_, that it goes to the core of what the Federation stands for – and that is trust in your companions, morality in all that you do, and love of your fellow man. He has disgraced and damaged the Enterprise, caused harm to its officers, and _betrayed the very fundamentals of what it means to be a Starfleet officer_."

Kirk's voice rang through the court, punctuating his last statement with vigor, echoes fading into the quiet.

"No more further questions," whispered Uhura, looking up at Kirk with something akin to absolute reverence.

Spock's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and he gave a nod that spoke of finality.

Jim didn't have to nod back. Spock already knew.

Judge Fayden didn't tear his eyes off of Kirk. "Attorney…?" he asked offhand almost disinterestedly.

"…No questions, Your Honor," peeped Mendlesson.

"Captain, you are free to step down from the stand."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Kirk rose majestically, and, limping, made his triumphant return to his chair. All eyes of the court followed his every movement. Bones clapped him on the shoulder this time as he took a seat.

Still dumbstruck, Uhura made it back to the prosecution table, slumping in her chair. She sat back, shuffling her things together with unfocused eyes.

Judge Fayden looked from prosecution to attorney. "Prosecutors…?"

Spock took to his feet. "Your Honor. We would like to call one more witness to the stand."

Fayden waved his hand in acquiescence. "Go ahead, then, Commander."

Spock turned to face the defense.

"We now call Seamus Finnegan to the stand."

There was a sudden undercurrent of chaos throughout the courtroom. Murmurings and shufflings erupted. It died down as the lone figure stood, his back to the audience. Fayden's gavel stilled in its descent. There was no need to call for order; Every single eye was tracing the progress of the blond prisoner.

Around Finnegan was a detail of security officers, keeping him in check. Every single one of them was equipped with phasers, electric cuffs, and a multitude of other defenses. As he made his way to the front of the court, the guards parted to let him through.

Finnegan soundlessly approached the stand, save for his shoes softly clapping on the wooden planks, and with a turn and a fall faced the masses. One of the guards followed him and stood at attention at the foot of the stand.

"Seamus Finnegan. Serial Number: H995-0212K. Currently on Suspension."

Spock had been silent for the entire second period of the trial, waiting for this. Passing behind Uhura, twisting around the ninety-degree corner of the table, and striding up to the stand with a refined, regal air, he began.

"Officer," Spock stated brusquely, "you have been charged with a multitude of crimes. You have pleaded Nolo Contondre. Which of the accusations do you then plea not-guilty?"

Eyes darting back and forth, but finding no way to escape the blunt question, Finnegan licked his lips before responding. "I… argue that I am not at fault for the malfunction and destruction of the Enterprise."

"And you have no other objections, from the theft of Starfleet equipment to the murder of your fellow officer to the capture and torture of your Captain?"

"…No objections, sir."

"So you admit to this court that you perpetrated all of the criminal acts of which you are accused, save for responsibility of the destruction of the Enterprise."

"…Yessir."

"Were you aware before you committed these crimes that they were punishable?"

"Well aware."

"Are you also aware of the severity of punishment for the compilation of your acts?"

"Yes."

"Officer Finnegan, for _what purpose_ did you commit these crimes in full knowledge of their atrocity?"

To this, Finnegan stopped.

"Was it all for vengeance against Captain Kirk? From your times at the Academy?"

Licking his lips, "…Yes – "

BZZZZZZT

The computer started repeating the phrase: "Incorrect. Incorrect. False statement."

For someone who never showed any emotion, Spock looked exultant. Of course, only to those who knew him well. To a stranger, he looked just as emotionless as ever.

"Thank you, computer." The computer's voice stopped. Spock turned back to Finnegan. "Officer, the chair on which you sit is specifically wired to measure your pulse, and detects lies. You have just lied about your intent under oath; do not do so again or you will be held in contempt of the court."

Finnegan desperately looked up at the judge. Fayden nodded his assent to this statement. "If you lie under oath again, Officer, you _will_ be so held."

"…Understood."

"…Officer, I ask again. What was the true purpose for your criminal acts?"

Finnegan's foot began to tensely tap the ground, slow at first but gaining speed in an irregular rhythm.

"Well. Um." He began cracking his knuckles nervously. "I – I'd say that the reason I, uh, assaulted the Captain was because of the grudge."

Everyone looked to the computer, which didn't utter a sound.

"And the rest? What was the purpose of killing Officer MacArthur, using Slistastostas as the murder weapon, and capturing and detaining Captain Kirk?"

Again, there was a long silence.

There was not a single move in the entire court. All of them were focusing too hard on Finnegan to shuffle around or whisper. A pin could drop and still be heard. The quiet was eerie, so the harsh breathing of Finnegan was reverberating.

In his state of agitation, Finnegan bit his lip until it bled, seemingly without noticing.

He was looking across the courtroom, staring intensely.

Spock didn't turn to see what he was looking at. "Officer, please answer the question."

Finnegan came to a decision, calming his thumping foot, slowing his breathing, and wiping the blood from his chin.

He looked past Spock, past Jim, past everyone, and nodded smartly.

Giving the signal.

Spock head whipped around.

Down the long aisle, almost perfectly lined up with the stand, Officer Cheng nodded back.

Spock saw his hands drift to his belt as if it was in slow motion, and draw out two phasers.

Both were flicked on – and glowing red.

Both of the phasers were set to kill.

The spectators were suddenly filled with pandemonium, screaming and trying to push themselves away from the center, to get out of being at gunpoint.

Cheng took off down the aisle, closing in, dashing as fast as he could. Raising his arms as he made towards the center of the court, he aimed for the side of the defense.

The security guards were just figuring out what was happening, struggling to whisk out their weapons.

Cheng shot once, twice – a guard yelled out as he fell back from a hit in the shoulder, another pitched forward from his leg wound.

Two of the guards were in position, and took some shots. By ducking down low behind the sturdy wooden chairs, Cheng avoided the hits and kept moving. He was halfway down the aisle.

Kirk and Spock locked eyes and nodded simultaneously.

Kirk got to his knees, moving smoothly like a cat past people's feet to get nearer to the center. Spock grabbed the prosecution table and upended it for a shield, which Uhura dashed behind.

Giotto was caught behind a wall of panicked people, forced over to the side of the room. He ground his teeth in frustration.

Cheng shot at the guards again – one was hit in the head, killing him instantly, and the other in the hand, making him drop his phaser. He'd already made it to the well, and tossed his second phaser over the bar to Finnegan.

Finnegan caught the gun.

At that moment, Chekhov, Sulu, and Scotty pushed an entire row of chairs into Cheng's side, who crashed to the ground.

As he was on the steps down the stand, Finnegan's phaser finally reloaded. He took out the last security guard next to him.

Kirk reached Cheng, who was struggling to his feet. With a lethal kick followed by a nasty open-handed strike, Kirk first winded him and then crushed his throat. As Cheng crumpled to the ground, his phaser clattered a few feet away.

Kirk dove for it.

Spock snatched a nearby chair and chucked it at Finnegan, who deflected it with a shot from his phaser. The chair was forcefully blown back and shriveled to ashes before it hit the ground.

Judge Fayden stood up and grappled at his side, pulling out a whip from underneath his dress uniform.

Kirk got to the phaser. It was still glowing red, set to kill. He didn't have time to change it.

Spock seized two more chairs, one in each hand, and charged towards Finnegan, who shot at him, destroying both of the chairs.

Fayden unslung his whip, and using his entire body, thrashed it at Finnegan.

The phaser was lashed out of his hands.

Just as Finnegan scrabbled for it, Spock reached him.

Spock dealt justice with a certain impartial ruthlessness, grabbing Finnegan's outstretched hand with crushing force, breaking the bone as easily as snapping a piece of chocolate.

With his other hand, Spock reached up and pinched Finnegan's neck.

Finnegan's head whacked the floor when he collapsed; Spock had made no move to catch him.

Spock stood over Finnegan's body, looming like a fuming, ominous menace.

Kirk flicked his phaser to stun; he contemplated it for a moment before casting it aside. He made his way towards Spock, crossing the well. He joined Spock in standing before Finnegan.

"It's over." Jim stated with ardor, crossing his arms. He turned to the spectators, and held out his arms in a calming gesture. "Everything is now under control. Please, do not panic. If you would, please exit the courtroom."

Bones had his medical bag in hand and was already kneeling by the side of one of the guards; he didn't look up as he said, "I do need capable nurses here. And more medical supplies."

Jim looked around, but nobody moved. "You heard the man – he needs hands and supplies!"

Some of the public tittered, but officers rushed to his aid. There were quite a few nurses in the crowd, most of which belonged to the Enterprise medical teams. Some of them rushed out to get to the nearest Sickbay for supplies.

Bones was soon surrounded by nurses, whom he properly delegated.

Fayden tied up his whip and strung it back on his hip. Kirk reached over the bar to shake his hand and personally thank him.

"You, sir, have great aim with that whip."

Fayden grinned. "I pride myself on it. You're pretty deadly yourself, Captain."

It was Jim's turn to grin. "Oh, I try."

He turned to other matters. "Spock, security."

Spock flipped out his communicator. "Three security details at the main courtroom, immediately. Two for the detainment of criminals and another for crowd control."

Another voice crackled out from the speaker. "Yessir, right away, sir."

He flipped it closed. "Captain, though security is on its way, we must stay here to – "

" – Detain Finnegan and his accomplice in their stead, yes." Jim's eyes took in the entirety of the situation before him. "Ah, Giotto! The perfect man for the job. Get a small team together and make sure the building is secure."

"Yessir." Giotto took off, grabbing two men by their collars and dragging them out.

"Chekhov, Sulu." Jim nodded to both of them. They came over. "I need to know if there are any ships around that Finnegan might have been planning to use for an escape. It might be too much for us to be able to take that ship into custody right now, but we at least can record which one it is. Do what you can to stop it from taking off, but if it gets away that's okay, we'll find it. You know what to do."

"Yessir." Both of them saluted and took off.

"Hey, Scotty," Jim called out, "could you come here for a second?"

"Aye, sir," Scotty was practically beaming.

"From an engineering point of view, how could we increase safety in the courtroom?"

Scotty's brow furrowed. "Hmmm, well. Ah could think o' uh plan to instate measures in reconstruction tha' include proofin' th' seats an' stand from phaser attack, fer one. An' Ah suppose tha' Ah could try t' set up uh frequency tha' could diminish th' intensity o' th' blast within a radius large enough t' fit the courtroom. O' course, th' best way is t' not let anyone save the wee security guards t' have any weapons on 'em, aye?"

"Yeah, it's sort of common sense. Though in this case, it was one of the security guards that was the accomplice… Spock, what do you think of this development?"

"You are referring to the duplicity of the security officer in trying to help Finnegan escape?"

"Mhm."

"It is a disturbing thought that not one, but two Starfleet officers have committed treasonous acts. There could be a number of officers who are complicit within the same group."

Jim bit his fingernail. "It's too bad we never got it out of Finnegan why he did it. That would've helped us a bit to narrow down our options."

"Yes, then we could have connected the conspirators through their common goal, perhaps finding them through a subsequent association."

"Well. We can try to figure it out. As soon as the crew is back on deck, we're having an emergency bridge meeting. We'll brainstorm a bit, try to get something out of all this and plan our next move accordingly."

"Noted."

"For the moment, the only thing we can do is sit tight and keep everyone calm." Jim turned to the jury, and then to the judge. "Judge Fayden, I believe there is no written procedure for this sort of incident. Perhaps the jury should go to make their decision?"

"Yes, I agree." Fayden went up to his place and banged on the gavel. The excess noise of the room dissipated. "The jury shall now assemble. This court is no longer in session. Please make your way to the exits. The jury shall reconvene here when posted."

The public finally flocked out. So did the judge and jury.

Which pretty much left the Enterprise crew in the courtroom.

Jim stared down at Finnegan's inert form. Spock was at his shoulder, looking not at Finnegan, but at him.

"Jim…" Spock's hand, which had been so sure when it was crushing Finnegan, was now uncertainly hanging in the air, stretching out to be put on Jim's shoulder.

As she was sorting through the multiple documents that had been scattered on the floor when Spock had overturned the table, Uhura happened to look up at that moment and see.

"...Spock, I…" Even though he was speaking quietly, Jim's voice cracked. More confident now, Spock's hand landed comfortingly on Jim's shoulder.

She quickly swung her head away, clutching at the PADDs and the pens and whatever else was on the ground. She felt like she'd been spying on or intruding in an exceedingly intimate moment. On accident, she hit her arm on the edge of the table. She stifled a squeak of pain.

From this far away, she couldn't hear what they were saying, and that was good, because she really didn't want to know. Crawling behind the table where nobody could see her, Uhura sat back against the oaken face and let tears pour silently down her face, holding her arm where it had been hit. She didn't wipe them away.

Over Finnegan's limp form, Jim was about to break out in tears as well. "Spock…" Jim faltered in a whisper. "He was a part of my _crew_."

"Jim…" Spock's fingers curled protectively, pulling the fabric of Jim's shirt taut.

"I _trusted_ him, just like I trust every single person on my ship… I…" Jim squeezed his eyes shut.

"Jim, you are the best captain in the fleet. You are exactly what Starfleet needs in every aspect of leadership. You are… not at fault. For _any_ part of this incident."

Wrenching his eyes open, Jim skimmed the sloping ceiling of the court with his gaze.

"He betrayed all of us, Jim. But you especially."

Jim met eyes with Spock. A small, sincere smile crept up on his face.

His hand came up to his shoulder and clasped Spock's.

One shock-filled millisecond later, both of them were three feet apart, blushing red and green.

On the other side of the room, Scotty was feeling awfully useless. He was one of the only ones without a job, after he'd finished designing a crime-proof courtroom.

"Captain, Ah think Ah'll focus on the Enterprise's repairs naew. What d'ye think?"

"Sounds… perfect, Scotty." Jim was still recovering. "When do you think she'll be up and running again?"

"Abaewt a month, sir, at least."

"How many teams do you need to make it in a week?"

Scotty hemmed and hawed for a bit. "Ah'd say… Five thousand of 'em."

"You got it." Jim pulled out his communicator and started talking to the higher-ups.

Scotty sat down in a chair that hadn't been shot, knocked over, or burnt to a crisp. He pulled out another handy PADD and started to type up instructions for rotating Engineering teams for the Enterprise's repairs.

It was about then that Bones finished up. All of the guards were healed, except for the man who had been shot in the head. There was no saving him. He stood up and walked over to Cheng.

Holding a beeping tricorder over him for two seconds before lowering it was enough. Cheng was dead, and had probably died instantly. Bones whistled. That was one lethal attack Jim had up his sleeve.

"Jesus, Jim, ya killed him."

Jim heard, but he waved it off, busy talking to the head of security.

Shaking his head, Bones moved on to the last person injured – Finnegan. Spock was standing over him like a hawk watching its prey.

"'Scuse me, ya pointy eared bastard, got a _patient_ to check out here," Bones politely intervened.

Spock raised an eyebrow but stepped away.

Bones hunkered down and panned his tricorder over the man. Vitals were all well and good, but Finnegan would be knocked the fuck out for another two hours at least. Oh, and his left arm was broken. Bones pulled out his setting equipment and got to it.

He finished in another ten minutes. "Phew," he exhaled, "There's that. His body's all healed up. Not that I can say the same thing for his mind." He stood and ripped his medical gloves off. "Nurses, use the stretchers on the dead bodies and take them to the morgue. I've called transport, they're probably already outside. When you're finished, get the people who need further rest into the nearest Sickbay."

The nurses rushed off to follow his orders. Bones bent down to collect all his things, packing all of his supplies back into his medical bag.

Spock spotted Uhura standing up from behind the table. She was facing away, but still wiping at her face. He stalked over.

"Lieutenant?"

She was a deer caught in the headlights. "Oh, Spock…" She hurriedly wiped the last of her tears away. "It's nothing."

"Nyota…"

"Really, it's nothing. I'm just glad that everything turned out all right." Suddenly fatigued, she straightened up with a forced smile. "Help me carry these PADDs, will you?"

Spock wordlessly plucked them from her hands.

Jim finally finished his call with a smile and a "Thank you, sir!" He turned back to Scotty. "Well, my wonderful Chief Engineer, you have your teams and as much supply you can ask for. Teams will file in tomorrow morning at 700 hours. Finished with their orders yet?"

"Hmmm…" Scotty typed up the last of it, then leaped to his feet and stretched out. "Aye, tha's all fer naew."

"Great. As soon as the security teams get here, we'll be able to take our leave."

And as if on cue, the security teams stormed through the door. They had had to fight through and control the crowd outside, so they were down to two teams.

"Gentlemen, this man is a criminal and needs to be detained asap." Jim held out his chin. "You have your orders."

And Jim passed through the teams, who deferentially parted like the Red Sea for him. Spock, Bones, Scotty, and everyone else there from the Enterprise followed him out.

((()))

Chekhov stopped in his tracks as he remembered.

Sulu looked back at him in confusion. They were supposed to stop that ship! The one taking off right now!

"Sulu… Ewerysing we said came true! In ze trial!"

Sulu nodded. "Yeah, but we have to run right now and get to the station over there."

Chekhov smirked. "I haff ze prewelidge of choosink your replicated meals for a veek, do not forget!"

Sulu rolled his eyes and pulled Chekhov along. "Come on, let's go stop that ship."

"Da, da."

((()))

Somehow, Bones ended up sitting with Jim and Spock at the dinner table in the mess hall, and right now that was not a good place to be. Damn them with their moony eyes and flirty conversations.

"But _Cap_tain – "

"Hey, Scotty!" He desperately called out. "Take a seat."

Scotty was all sunshine and rainbows and happiness, and he sat right across from Bones. "Captain, Commander. Doctor."

"Hey, Scotty." Jim cast a smile and an aside for formality's sake before he lost himself in Spock again.

"So, how's the heart treatin' ya, Scotty?" Bones sawed at his tough steak with a plastic mess hall knife.

"Aye, well. Since then, Ah haven't had any trouble whatsoever."

"Yeah, no attacks?"

"Nay, not a single one."

"No funny business at all?"

"Well, Ah wouldn't quite say tha'." Scotty smiled up at him.

Bones snorted. "A new romance, huh. Keep that up."

"Ye know how it is, Doctor. Caen't help it."

"Well, I dunno if I know that much. I've been able to help a few romances in my humble experience."

"What, but havaen't ye been married?"

"Yes, exactly."

Scotty laughed. "Ah see."

Bones smiled as he switched his concentration to his steak, which refused to be cut. As he continued to saw, the smile slowly fell into a grimace.

"Ah, screw this goddamn steak." He threw his plastic knife on the tray. "Scotty, let's go get us a real meal."

"Aye, Doctor! Real steak!" Scotty looked like he'd been electrified as he shot up to his feet animatedly.

"Seeya, Jim, hobgoblin."

"Later, Bones."

As the pair of them walked to the door, Bones said thoughtfully, "And ya know, I never bought you that drink…"

((()))

End of Part 16

tbc

((()))

_Author's note_: Whew. That was an experience. Over 13,000 words. Sorry it took so long. Things like life and lack of motivation to do that much work got in the way. But here it is, months later. Sorry about that… but now it's summer! Yayyyy! Free time + boredom = increase in production of fanfiction.

What did you think of my system with the navigations stuff? Good? Because I'll probably be using that for the rest of the story. Just a heads-up. If you ever need to check, it's here. This chapter. Ask me if you want anything confirmed about it.

Ok, so I know this chapter seems like an ending or a climax, but… Um… how do I put this. This is only the beginning. This is just the start of the arc. Amazingly. We have quite a while to go here. I don't even know how many arcs there are… Clearly you see that it ain't over. And believe me, it ain't over til it's over.

Slistas' progress has been sort of left in the dark for awhile, but he's coming back soon.

For this chapter, there was a bunch of actiony stuff – especially that one scene. You know the one I mean. Hope it paid off and wasn't real crappy. This is the first straight, real fight scene in the story with no flipping scenes, and I hope it didn't disappoint. It's tough when so many things are going on at once. Wish I could just make a movie of it; that would be so much easier to communicate.

Uh, so that Kirk/Spock action… yeah. It's way too easy. Way too _there_. Way too 'shoving its way into my Scones story at every turn.' They are so unbearably cute, those two, and their cuteness infiltrates everything.

Research on this chapter was totally killer, by the way. So. Much. Research. So. Much. Work. So. Much. Laziness. But now it's over and done with, and I have for the most part pieced everything together. Won't have another research-heavy chapter like this one for… well, the rest of forever, probably. (I'm going to take that back in advance.)

Stayed up late to finish this, which wasn't too bad this time. Certainly not an all-nighter. Though, of course, I am definitely writing a really long and involved note, which clearly indicates I am not in my best state of mind, especially because my sentences are leaning towards ramblings.

In any event, hope you enjoyed the chapter, hope you'll stay on for more, and hope you'll review to tell me where I'm going wrong – I'm sure I've missed something.

:D

~happysquid


	17. Of Snacks and Snares

_Author's annoying pre-chapter comments_: yay for romantic love comedy development! :D There won't be another break like this for awhile I think, so enjoy it while it lasts… dun dun dunnnnnn…

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Part 17: Of Snacks and Snares

((()))

Bones picked out a homey-looking restaurant named 'Deli de Terre,' one that he'd been to years back and still remembered for their genuine meat. In their rush to eat real food, the two of them snagged a spot and rifled through the menu in frenzies. When plates were finally set before them, the two of them went to town. It was only after they had been sated, their plates cleaned of any stray crumbs, last-minute orders made, that they settled down into their company.

"So, Scotty. The end of the trial. Thoughts?"

Scotty cocked his head, munching on his fifth sandwich. "'Twas a wee bit eventful."

"Ha! Just a bit?"

"Ah can honestly say tha' Ah didnae expect tha' t' happen."

"Which bit?"

"Th' judge calling for a recess an' all. Thought Finnegan would be sentenced on th' spot, Ah did."

Bones stopped and looked at him for a beat. He then promptly choked on his water. After some coughing, trying to hide his laughter, Bones regained his breath enough to ask, "You… you mean you expected the shootout, the accomplice, Spock nerve-pinching Finnegan like the hobgoblin he is, you expected all of that?"

"Nay, but that sort of thing always happens on board the Silver Lady, yea? Didnae think too much of it, really."

Bones couldn't fight off his smile enough to look properly anguished. "Jesus, Scotty, and I thought _I_ was overexposed to the point of apathy."

"Hrmm, apathy's a strong word, Doctor. Ah'd say… more laiyke conditioned regularity."

"Okay, but in _my_ psychological book, they mean basically the same thing."

"Well," Scotty held up a wagging finger, "Ah'd say tha' it's naewt that Ah don't _care_, which Ah do. It's tha' Ah don't consider it t' be out o' th' ordinary or all that memorable, 'specially in a month or so."

At this, Bones could not disagree. "Yeah, I guess. After our next mission, we'll be sure to forget about most of this trial. Not nearly the most excitin' thing we've ever been through."

"Aye."

Bones turned thoughtful. "Except Spock always remembers every little detail about every mission we've ever been on. I've started keepin' extremely detailed logs just to try to find something that he gets wrong about a previous mission, but he never fails."

"Aye, Commander Spock is a better source than Memory Alpha, Ah declare. He's been through all o' it's records before an' he's addin' to 'em day aftair day."

"That didn't seem like such a bad thing… until his goddamn brain got stolen. Now he's a target, sort of. Being too goddamn smart fer his own good."

"But we're prepared for anything like that naew, yea?"

"Yeah, Giotto set up all-new security patterns for… however stupid it sounds… brain-stealing."

"Aye, Ah helped make tha' system."

"Oh, really? How does it work, exactly?"

"Well, y'see…"

((()))

Tom the barman was washing a dirty glass, all his energies intent on scrubbing it to a shine despite the oddly-colored chemicals left there by some alien customer, when the familiar beep sounded and the door swept open. One after another, two extremely recognizable men filed in. Both of them had frequented this place many times, but Tom couldn't quite remember the last time they'd stopped here. It had probably been years since he'd seen either face. And this was the only time he'd seen both of them together.

The first was Scotty, a charming Scotsman who was always positive and smart in a natural way. A lot of people liked to sit down and have a drink with him because of his easy-going personality and funny quirks. He was a top-notch engineer that got shunted quite a few years back because of an incident with a higher-up and his dog. From the stripes on his uniform, Tom figured Scotty had gotten pretty distinguished in rank.

The second one was taller, leaner, and darker. His name was McCoy, and last time Tom had talked with him, he'd been focused on becoming a medical officer. Tom distinctly remembered one time when some poor cadet accidentally passed out from too much to drink, and McCoy had run over at once. Minutes later, the kid had been good as new. Now that he looked, McCoy had some pretty nice stripes as well.

The pair of them made their way to the bar, plopped down, and ordered drinks right away. Both of them ordered their signature drinks, which Tom quickly set about to make: a Scotch for Scotty and a whiskey for McCoy.

He slid the drinks over the counter, and once again took up his glass and wipe. Incurably curious, Tom couldn't help but sidle up to listen to them talk.

"Ain't nothin' better than kickin' back after a full meal of real food with some real drink, huh Scotty?"

"Aye… tha' i' is."

"Y'know, I have no idea how many drinks I owe ya, but might as well get started on that tonight."

"Well, Doctor, Ah owe ye some too. Ye've saved me life a few times over naew."

"I'm tellin' ya, Scotty, ya don't owe me nuthin'. You've gotten the Enterprise back into commission or fixed the communicators or the transporters so many times in a crisis that if you hadn't been there, everything would have gone to hell in a goddamn handbasket."

Scotty grinned over the rim of his glass. "Naew, naew. Goes both waeys, Doctor. Me, Ah fix th' ship – you, ye fix th' lads and lasses runnin' it."

McCoy blinked. "…Yeah. Ain't that the goddamn truth."

"So we both owe each other a drink or two, aye?"

"Aright, aright. Pay every other round, that sound good?"

"Aye."

There was a companionable silence, one that didn't need to be filled. It didn't weigh on anyone, and it certainly wasn't gloomy. No, this silence was half-lidded and laid back with a spark of happiness lying just underneath the surface.

McCoy reached the bottom of his glass, giving a great sigh as he set it back on the bar. "The stash I have onboard ship doesn't compare with the stuff straight from planetside. Something about space travel upsets all food, makes it taste off somehow."

"Hmmm. Something abaewt sandwiches, though. Jest caen't eat one an' think badly of it afterwards."

McCoy chuckled softly. "You and your goddamn sandwiches."

"Ah understand, though. Ah've tried t' improve those replicatin' machines, but there comes a point when ye caen't improve th' quality without changin' th' basic molecular pattern t' do it. An' thas' naewt what Ah'd call easy, going against th' entire system thas' been made already."

Scotty flipped his glass up to swallow the remainder of his Scotch. "Ah think th' next step will be t' design a whole new replication molecular system and present it t' th' board some time or another."

"You know that much about molecular structures in food?" McCoy raised his eyebrow. "Y'know I'm a pretty good cook myself, and those kids from Science know a thing or two about organic chemistry, so I hear."

Scotty grinned. "Well, Ah figured Ah could ask yerself an' a few scientists abaewt it now an' again."

"That is a noble cause. I'll get started as soon as possible."

"T'will take some time," Scotty warned.

"Yeah, and time is something neither of us really have."

"Aye, Doctor. Aye."

Another one of those silences, the one that Tom rarely found between the people coming into his bar. It was a rare type of familiarity, a rare type of compatibility. It was as if the two of them together caused a chemical reaction that yielded comfort.

McCoy raised his hand to call Tom over. "'Scuse me, sir, could we have another round over here?"

Tom was bustling over their orders again. His masterful hands spun a whiskey out of a nearby barrel, and elegantly whipped a Scotch from a nearby bottle.

"Thank you, sir." McCoy took his glass with an effortless swipe.

"Aye, ye make a barmy good Scotch, sir."

Tom nodded his head with a smile, and took up his rag again. He kept on scrubbing the same cup, which was still stained bright neon purple. He had no idea what it was, but he knew it had to come off eventually. Besides, he liked listening in to these two. They were interesting, real interesting; they had strong, dependable characters along with deep trust and friendship with each other. The pair was… inexplicably down to earth. And coming from a barman who worked right next to Starfleet HQ, that was saying a lot about them.

When they finally amiably ambled from the bar, the two were stumbling down the dark street with only a few lamplights guiding them from swerving off the curb. One arm slung over each other's backs, both were happily recounting some horrible events they'd seen go down on board the Enterprise, from machinery coming to life for some evil purpose to those goddamn spores. Boots languidly clopped on the smooth, broad sidewalks, and every minute or so the two would lightly collide.

They got to Central HQ somehow and found one of their quarters pretty easily.

((()))

Christine Chapel had always enjoyed taking walks around campus. She knew all of the paths, even through the complex gardens full of foreign plants that stretched for acres. Being back on Earth was rare, and that morning she took full advantage of it by combing through all of the various walkways.

It was still dark outside, but the tiny stain of pink on the horizon hinted at dawn. Birds chirped from the surrounding trees. Recognizing a call, she whistled back to them, smiling when they took off in response.

She had loved her biology course solely focused on birds. It had been her favorite. Whenever she was on an away team on an alien planet, she always tried to spot at least one native bird and categorize it. Hear its birdcall. See what tree it was in. Just a fun hobby of hers. Most everyone had a quirk like that; Sulu liked to check the plants and flowers, Uhura learned the native language, Chekhov found something culturally comparable to Russia.

Chapel turned onto the main path where the sun shot down with its first rays, uninhibited by buildings or trees. She walked into the blinding brightness, unafraid of stumbling or stubbing. Through her closed lids, she still saw the glowing red of harsh light. As she walked, she would become used to the sunlight and be able to open her eyes; but for now, she continued on unseeing.

The birds chirped, the cicadas buzzed, her footsteps clattered on the smooth stone pathway. Ever so slightly, the breeze blew her bangs across her brow.

Beside her, there was a shuffling, a shing of metal, and the sound of a clump of dirt hitting the ground. She stopped walking, her eyes popping open in surprise at this unexpected noise.

On the right side of the path, there was a man hunched over the flowerbeds, stabbing a spade into the earth and hoisting bunches of soil out. After four or five shovels, he would pick up an unplanted blue tulip still in its container. Slowly, to not snap off any roots, he pulled the plastic off the flower's base. Then he carefully set the plant into the hole he had prepared and shuffled the excised dirt all around the newly planted tulip.

She watched him. His gloved hands were agile and certain, so used to the act of gardening that their motions seemed almost mechanical.

He had turned her way by chance, hands going back to his spade, when he caught her eye. This stopped him. He stood abruptly, and broke out in a tentative smile.

"Good morning, miss."

Smiling as brilliantly as possible, Chapel replied, "The gardens really are stunning at this time in the morning, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are."

"The flowers you're planting are simply lovely. Baby blue – I love the color."

"Thank you, miss. But their blue isn't nearly as striking as your eyes." The way he said it made Christine stifle a giggle; he looked horrified after he realized what just came out of his mouth.

"Thank you, but flattery will get you everywhere." She beamed. "My name's Christine."

He blushed a deep reddish purple, but looked up at her hopefully. "Roger."

"It is my pleasure, Roger." She considered him. "Do you often plant tulips at this time of day, or am I just lucky?"

Roger looked surprised as a laugh leapt out of him. "I don't plant as much as I would like – most of the day I'm in the laboratory. This is the only time I have to get outside, really. Wish I had more."

"Oh, the laboratory? What field are you in?"

"I'm actually into medicine."

"Really? I'm in medicine too. I'm a ship nurse."

"Oh, impressive. I just study medicine; I don't apply it. I do a lot of testing, nothing hands-on. I specialize in medical archaeology, actually."

Chapel's eyes did not bulge out of her head. She was too ladylike. But they did widen a little. "You wouldn't happen to be Roger _Korby_, would you?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Guilty."

"_The_ Roger Korby?"

"One and the same."

"I use your methods in research all the time with strains!" Chapel couldn't help it; her face was filled with exuberant joy as she clasped her hands in excitement. "They're always the most efficient and always yield accurate results. And I can't _tell_ you how may times it's saved the lives of my crewmembers."

He smiled tentatively. "I'm glad my research is being put to good use."

Chapel looked with new eyes on the tulips that sat on the side of the path waiting to be planted. "And did you engineer that strain of flower yourself, Mr. 'Louis Pasteur of archaeological medicine'?"

Roger looked to the side. "Guilty again."

Chapel smiled demurely. "Then you _are_ applying your theories. And putting them to good use to boot."

He looked back at her, puzzling over something. "It seems… I still have a lot of work to do on that flower. The color isn't good enough."

"I think the color is wonderful."

"I mean…" He frowned, fumbling over the words he was trying to get out. "I mean, I want the blue to be… just the same as your beautiful eyes."

Chapel's mouth went slack as this hit her.

"It'll probably take forever to get the incredible hue that your irises have; it might even be impossible, but…"

Incredible warmth started building deep within her. Korby's voice was dwindling as his thoughts took him away.

"…If I can see a flower with the same color as your eyes, it'll remind me of you… So it'll be worth it."

Roger stared at his flowers, embarrassed. The tips of his ears were blushing along with his cheeks.

Christine didn't trust her voice just yet.

It decided to come out anyway.

"…That is the nicest, most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me." It was quiet and low, but cracked with emotion.

Roger looked at her. Chapel's eyes were wide and watery, staring right back at him.

Far off in the distance, the soft chimes of bells sounded at the Academy. It was seven hundred hours.

"If you have time tomorrow, would you like to… take a tour of my laboratory?" He took a breath. "And then, maybe… dinner?"

Chapel smiled broadly.

"Yes."

The sun was shining, the birds were winging, bells were ringing. And love was definitely singing.

((()))

_bee bee-beep_

That was his absolutely _least_ favorite sound. _Ever_. It incited in him the most dark and vengeful feelings possible. Bones blindly flung out an avenging hand towards the noise, fumbling around on a tabletop. His fingers grabbed a watch, then a lamp, and finally that _goddamn communicator_ –

His hand was drawn back in the air, ready to smash the goddamn thing on the ground again, _when the bed beneath him shuddered_.

Bones knew that shudder.

Vibrations were traveling through the mattress like ripples through a pond, and Bones definitely wasn't causing them. The sensation alone threw him back into the years and years of sleeping next to the same woman, having her shift onto her side when he hit the alarm clock.

Bones didn't bother to lower his rigidly poised hand as he craned his neck back over his shoulder.

Still utterly dead to the world, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott there reclined. Cross-cut light rested over him from the shuttered window. He softly whistled through his barely opened mouth, and his short hair was spiking all over the pillow.

The communicator dropped to the floor.

One second Bones was frozen, the next he was frantically running his hands over himself, checking if yes, he still had his shirt on, yes, he still had his pants on, and yes, he was hickey-free. There's a goddamn relief.

He heaved a dramatic sigh and threw his head back against the headboard, crossing his arms and legs.

Actually, this wasn't so bad. He'd definitely had to wake up to worse faces in his time. Of course, those were usually the times he woke up on away missions in captivity, and those were the _worst_ faces in the universe. Not that Scotty was ugly, because he wasn't. He was a decent-looking man. It was just that most of the aliens Bones had seen directly after regaining consciousness were particularly nauseating, and he hadn't woken up to that many faces otherwise, that's all. Especially when they were using you as a tool to manipulate Jim into giving them the Enterprise or for some other harebrained scheme. And they were always holding a gun to your temple. That was always exciting, as Scotty would say. Did say. Had said. What the hell. Bones yawned. Why was he still awake again…?

His eyes drifted closed as if on cue and his body relaxed into the first stage of sleep.

_bee bee-beep_

He ground his teeth together in frustration. With the fury and fire of fifty thousand supernovae, Bones' eyes snapped open. He stalked the necessary two steps from the bed to reach the damn contraption, picked it up, and clutched it with a crushing grip full of unrestricted hatred. Bones lifted it up over his shoulder, beyond his head, up to high heaven.

Just as he was about to deliver divine justice, Scotty decided to shuffle around with the blankets and make the bed creak in such a way that Bones knew he had sat up.

"Morning, Doctor!" a chipper Montgomery Scott cheerily sing-songed.

Bones hastily flung his arm to his side. Scotty didn't comment or even ask. Which Bones was very happy and grateful for.

"Er, mornin' Scotty."

_bee bee-beep_

It just wouldn't shut up! Bones flipped it open, being under scrutiny and all. Got to at least _try_ to look halfway sane. "Bones here," he muttered gruffly.

To his surprise, someone was on the other end of the line. Less surprising was the fact that it was Jim. "Bones, thanks for finally _deigning_ to pick up your comm! Have I got news for you!" You could practically hear him bouncing on the walls with a beaming grin. Probably because he got to annoy Bones first thing in the morning.

"Dammit, Jim, I haven't even gotten my wake-up coffee yet." He rolled his eyes, but he was smirking as he plopped ungracefully onto the edge of the bed.

"Well here goes anyway. I need you back on the Enterprise as soon as possible getting everything ready in Sickbay. Supplies, repairs, _everything_."

"…And why is that?"

Jim snorted. "We're going on another mission, of course."

"What, the second the week of leave is up?"

"Hopefully."

"Dammit, Jim, the crew needs rest."

"Yeah, but we also need to complete the mission that got left hanging when we crashed into the side of that planet." Jim paused, probably for effect. "Or else it'll never happen, escalate into something too big to handle, and there we have it – another galaxy-wide catastrophe."

"Uh-huh, yeah yeah, you've made your point." Bones rolled his eyes again, and Scotty grinned up at him from the covers. Which did not make Bones have to hide a smile, not at all. "And what does that mean, 'hopefully?' Do we not have jurisdiction for the mission yet or some shit?"

He'd been half-joking, but Jim answered, "Yep. Mission went on probation before the trial even began. After the fiasco of Finnegan's escape attempt, the Council pulled it completely."

"Goddamn."

"Yeah, that's what I've been saying."

"Shit."

"Pretty much."

"Fuck."

"Couldn't agree more."

"God_damn_."

"Couldn't you try for something more creative?"

"Hell."

"Well, I guess it's a little better than flat-out repeating yourself."

"Jesus."

"Now you're just patronizing me."

"…Shut up, Jim." Rough in a huff. But there was no menace to his words.

Jim laughed loudly. "Better get a coffee before you terrorize some poor cadets, Bones."

"I plan on it." Bones could almost see the grin in response.

"See you later today? Dinner? Ship?"

"Ship."

"Right. Gotta go – see you on deck."

"Till then."

He shut the communicator with a satisfying click.

He turned to Scotty, who was still lying back in bed looking over at him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Caen we go get some sandwiches, then?"

((()))

Jim closed his communicator and set it back on his desk. He was still poured over PADDs, and had been for hours and hours. Bags were starting to form under his eyes, big purple ones that looked obscene. To the point of looking like ripe umdoni or whatever that weird purple fruit was. Calling Bones had been a welcome distraction that really woke him up with a laugh. But he didn't have time for that now; Jim needed to finish going over all of the papers and records and documents about Colony IX and memorize the mission files for their possible annexation. And he needed it done by sixteen hundred hours.

He ran a frustrated hand over his face, particularly his puffy eyes. It was impressive how much they'd inflated; Bones would've thought he'd been hit with another allergic reaction to some alien bacteria. But no.

"Jim, I strongly advise you to rest."

Jim swiveled about in his chair to face Spock. "I need to get this done, or it may be too late."

"I have already memorized the proper information. There is no need for you to memorize it as well. You have already exerted notable energies in this endeavor; do not waste the remaining strength you have. You will require that energy for the mission dialogue."

Snort. "Logical as ever. Before you override my authority in some underhanded mutinous fashion, I concede." He held up his hands in mock defeat.

"It is very _logical_ for you to do so." Whoever said the Spock didn't have a sense of humor or didn't smile _clearly_ hadn't been coerced into bed by him. Wait a second… That sounded a little… Whatever.

"Okay, well just make sure to wake me up at a _logical_ time before the dialogue."

"Affirmative." Spock's eyes glittered.

With the remnants of his sapped HP, Jim made his way over to the bed and flopped down on it without even taking his shoes off. Spock took his seat at the desk, putting everything back in order before pulling out a recreational PADD of his own.

It was an ancient novel that had quite the lengthy descriptions on whales, a long extinct species, which piqued Spock's scientific interest. He took a great many mental notes on the subject, even though the writer himself admitted to only partial knowledge, and resolved to further study by way of database once he had finished with this source. So far, he had not deciphered the title, Moby-Dick, but he supposed that would show itself at some point within the novel itself.

Not only did the scientific aspect appeal to Spock; the aesthetics of the literature were striking. Clearly Herman Melville was a master of language and presentation, and ever since Spock had begun to refine his speech as Commander, he had devoured many classic books from all cultures like this one. However, this particular novel was superior to many other texts, in that Spock valued its strengths to a higher extent than the others.

As Jim would say, it was his favorite.

Spock looked over fondly at the bed where Jim had collapsed. He was already fast asleep. Already Spock felt the soft blur of dreams cloud in the back of his mind.

No matter what the context or what he was focusing on, Spock always found himself circling back to Jim.

He considered it to be a natural phenomenon.

((()))

Chekhov spun an empty vodka bottle in his palm. He was on leave for the first time in months, free, and all he could think of to do was drink. Alone. In his rented single. Before ten o'clock in the morning.

He was so bored that the stark, cruel winters in Mother Russia that killed every animal that dared sleep were more interesting. It wasn't that he was full of restrained energy; by his standards, he was almost without pulse. Chekhov needed activity, or else.

It was time for him to start up a, what you say, party.

Seizing upon this idea with vigor, Chekhov burst across the room to his computer and looked up his contacts. He'd have to invite Sulu, of course. And Riley. Riley was always funny, thinking that a small island named Ireland could possibly compete with the greatness of the largest country on Earth – which, for your information, is Mother Russia. Chapel and Rand were possibilities. And Uhura might want to come, too. Ever since a few months ago, she'd wanted to do more things with them during leisure.

With a grin, Chekhov typed up a message and sent it to everyone on his list.

In less than twelve hours, he was going to be so drunk he would probably start speaking in Russian again.

_That_ got his blood running at its usual speed.

He sat at his computer, waiting eagerly for a response to his message. As time dragged on in endless minutes, Chekhov opened another window and worked on some complex equation that some friend had forwarded to him to pass the time.

Oops, he'd solved it.

He clicked on another one.

((()))

Back in the room, Bones had fully expected to be in a restaurant right now, choosing items on a menu. But here he was, in central San Francisco, wandering alone in the midst of a bustling farmer's market.

Nobody could have guessed at Bones being put off by his unexpected situation. He knew exactly what to do, swooping down upon the various food stands with a vengeance, cutting through ridiculous prices with skilled repartee. He came to a particular stand that was gleaming with bright produce.

Bones bent over the stand, looking through the armada of fresh fruits and vegetables. He hunted for the very biggest and best. As he passed the peaches, he had to pause and take a minute there, picking up and personally inspecting the ones that caught his sharp eye. He filled his basket with all the fresh, perfectly ripened peaches that passed his test, as well as some obligatory grapes, tomatoes, celery sticks, carrots, and lettuce.

The shopkeepers scanned his card, putting his purchases on credit. It had been forever since Bones had gone shopping; he had more than enough stocked away from being a high-ranking Starfleet officer, but the only place he ever usually spent was the bar. In comparison, the marketplace was hectic and lively. He'd missed this feeling of being in the crowd, of being busy at work to get a good place in line and a quality piece of whatever he was trying to find. The last time he'd been in this situation was a long time ago, in Georgia. He'd been grocery shopping for dinner. Before the whole goddamn divorce began.

Bones shook his head, shaking his mind free of that depressing trap. He had some very important tasks to complete here. What was next?

Scotty had already gone to get the meats; he'd gotten cheeses, fruits, vegetables… Now to pick up the bread. He headed over to the bakery, which was down the street from all the fruit stands. After much deliberation, pouring over the rows of steaming rye and sourdough, Bones decided on two loaves of the best wheat bread.

Passing by all the clothing shops that popped up on the street corners, he happened to glance in the window and see a multitude of quilts hanging there. They reminded him of his grandmother's quilts she had always had when sitting in her rocking chair, knitting. There was nothing he could do but walk through the door. On a whim, he bought a nice patchwork blanket that they could lay on the ground as they ate on the lawn of the quad.

All that was left was to get the spices and sauces. He was thinking oregano for spice, some mayonnaise, some ketchup and mustard for sauce. Nothing too fancy. Then he'd be done getting everything he needed, and he would head back to Main Street to meet up at the corner.

Then he'd make some sandwiches with Scotty.

Unbeknownst to him, Bones was brimming with unfettered happiness as he marched through the active marketplace.

Whistling.

((()))

Jim brought his metaphorical fist down as he stated his last, most resounding point to the Council.

"We have the responsibility of tracking Slistastostas down. We have the responsibility to finish the mission we so abruptly halted. And we have the responsibility to _solve whatever problems that are encroaching in Federation space that result in the atrocities of kidnapping and torture_."

Spock stood solidly behind Jim, silently supporting him, looking on the faces of the Council that were gazing at Jim as if they had never seen anything quite like it before. Spock had seen similar faces at many previous dialogues.

They were, as Jim had hoped they would be, hopelessly snookered.

The Council was adjourned, Jim and Spock were dismissed, and they were on their way to a late lunch.

They had gotten their mission.

((()))

End of Part 17

tbc

((()))

_Author's après-vous Note_: Okay, I know, super cheesy. Like, to the point of it being disgusting. But hey. The cuteness… Oh, it's too cute.

And this cuteness will of course leak over to the next chapter, where there are unresolved issues like a picnic, a party, and a hot date in the lab. :D Don't worry, the scary stuff will resurface eventually. But for now… enjoy the down time. There's a while week of leave, so…

In other concerns, Slistas' name has appeared again! Yay! Yes, he's coming back.

It was a bit short for the wait you guys had to sit through, but hey, this is the original length. It's half of one of the courtroom chapters, but it's still within my original standards. The next one should be about the same length, if not longer.

If you read all the way to this ending line, you might as well review; you're smart and patient enough. :)


	18. Of Picnics and Parlance

_Author/Pre-Chapter/Note_: I did my best, KHAAANN! Read onwards.

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 18: Of Picnics and Parlance

((()))

She kept going back to her computer and checking her contacts and messages. Yes, Roger Korby was still there, newly minted into Chapel's extremely limited list of close contacts. No, he hadn't sent her anything yet.

Every few minutes, she would sit back in her desk chair and flick on the screen. There were no changes, and she would stand and go do something somewhat productive like cleaning the sink or making the bed or folding the laundry or looking through outfits. Then she would lose interest halfway through and return to the computer. This was the stuff of teen-angsting, hormone-raging, love-struck girls.

She hadn't felt like this since high school, and that was quite a long time ago.

When Chekhov's email popped up, she was filled with hope that quickly got punctured and sagged into disappointment. But she opened it, read it, and typed up a quick rsvp in reply.

Who else as coming? Looked like the other invites were to Nyota, Janice, Hikaru, and Riley. She would be able to tell Nyota and Janice _all_ about it.

_It_ being her _date_.

With _Roger Korby_.

Did she mention she had a _date_?

Chapel went back to fussing over what she was going to wear.

((()))

The blanket ballooned in the wind as Bones flapped it into the air, settling lightly onto the fresh green grass of the science quad. Sun glittered on the windows surrounding them, making an unexpected light show of flashing colors and patterns for anyone who lingered long enough to see it. He set his large basket off to the side, which was so full his purchases were spilling out of the brim.

Bones tumbled easily onto the patchwork, feeling the scratchy grass underneath the cloth bend from his weight. He looked up into the sky, which was surprisingly empty of any transports or satellites. It was just blue. The purest form of blue Bones had ever seen, right there. He closed his eyes and listened to Scotty hum into the still air, breathing warmth into the drab atmosphere.

Rustling in the grass next to the Doctor, Scotty knelt down to examine the contents of the picnic basket before him. He had bought many a meat and the Doctor many a condiment, and it was now time to make a few sandwiches to reward them of their efforts. There was no lid on the basket, so Scotty just started taking out supplies. The plates were a good first choice; the cutting board next, the knife. He carefully placed the bread in the board and sawed through it to make four separate pieces.

In less than ten minutes, he had completed his task in engineering ten sandwiches. Each of them had five stacked on his plate. Bones sat up from his silent reverie at last, pulling out a pack of napkins and two beers from his basket.

"Ready?"

Scotty rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"Aye, aye, Doctor!"

They chowed down. It was glorious.

The sandwiches were all completely different, made of various meats, cheeses, vegetables, and even fruits. Each had its own individual flavor and meaning, and Bones and Scotty thoughtfully went through them all, pondering on all the tastes and textures with the intensity of professionals.

Bones began commenting on what he thought it all meant, which Scotty enthusiastically responded to. First was the beef cheddar, which was a strong opening to be sure. Bones was pretty sure it represented the vitality of youth and beginnings, with all the power but none of the finesse of experience. Scotty agreed with the idea that the sandwich was a symbol of an authoritative start, but that instead of emphasizing the failings of a headstrong child, it was more about the raw shock of new experiences. Bones could agree with that, though both views had merit.

Second was chicken parmesan and apple. The apple, Bones was sure, represented temptation with its sweet taste and luscious red peel. The combination with the chicken parmesan, a solid and well-worn arrangement, indicated not only having a developing life full of regulation and custom, but also innocently and simply giving into temptation. A temptation that hadn't yet revealed its ugly side, waiting to strike. Scotty chimed in that this particular sandwich following the beef cheddar implied the naïve mind growing in arrogance, believing that it has seen it all and understands everything around it. Even though there is still so much for it to see.

Next, third, was the ham and swiss with various vegetables. The strong flavor that rocked Bones back was obviously the shock of the first exposure to evil and animosity, to the world that was not neat and orderly but wild and violent. In response, Scotty claimed the natural holes in Swiss cheese added to this effect, symbolizing the way the mind had had holes punched through its inflated ego and other half-formed misconceptions. Bones could only agree, and think that the multitude of other tastes, though minimal and overtaken by the Swiss, added to the overall feeling of chaos.

Fourth was meatball and provolone with a dash of oregano and a smattering of olives. This, according to Scotty, was the reestablishment of order through the familiar, through the simplicity of life. After the terror from the ham and swiss, the meatball and provolone served to once again ground the mind in the beauty of the moment, to the core beauty of existence. Bones nodded fervently; with few ingredients and barely any spices, the power of the sandwich was evident in its individual quality in every area present. The olives and oregano that served to add to the sandwich were the sparkles of wonder and glory in a world of simple laws of nature. Truly, this was an affirmation.

Fifth and last was rejoicing: the salmon. The sweetness of the fish boasted its freshness, as the happiness given by true understanding and love was constantly being made anew no matter how old the mind. Different from the blasts like the beef cheddar, this taste was constantly shifting, subtle and wonderful in its wisdom. No bite was exactly the same; the sauces and salmon mixed to make every one a surprising yet familiar and delicious flavor. This was and could only be a celebration of the intricacies of life, and their great mystery and beauty. Scotty said as much, and Bones could think of nothing more to describe its brilliance.

Sighing contentedly, Bones finished off his very last crumb, turning back to his beer and remaining fruit, and slouched back onto his elbows. Scotty was still sitting Indian-style, happily humming once again, some Scots song that Bones had heard on one of those dying-cat instruments. Whaddya call 'em, the bagpipes. Bones hated those goddamn bagpipes with all his soul, but he liked the tune.

Maybe it was the hum that was trickling down through him, but Bones was especially happy, and he didn't bother to tell himself that he wasn't. There was a golden bubble of joy at the center of his being, just there in his stomach, expanding and spreading to his entire body. He didn't know how to explain it better than that. He didn't bother to stop himself from thanking Scotty, "This is a damn good lunch, Scotty, thanks for the invite," and he didn't bother to conceal his smile. What was the point of that, anyway? Hiding things. Scotty didn't care about that kind of thing, so why should Bones?

Scotty beamed back, as he always did. "Aye."

Soon they would have to head back on board the Enterprise and start working again. Probably before the day was over. Where they would slam their noses to the grindstone, both of them, until the next shore leave. But for now, they enjoyed the moment.

They clinked their beers together in an unspoken cheers.

((()))

"_Six days_," said Jim. "We have _six days_ to get the Enterprise not only working, but to its absolute peak of performance."

He was sitting at a table, in the command position as always, his hands knit together. He was leaning forward intently, trying to get the feeling of serious haste across.

Surrounding him at the table was a gaggle of engineering and labor directors. These would be the people running the repairs for the most part. And Spock was standing right behind him, as always. The two of them made quite the formidable duo in a conference room.

"The missions that my crew takes are impossible without the Enterprise. We need this ship to be a reliable vessel of transport, an able battleship, and a safe environment to live in. When we are in deep space, I need to be able to trust in the solidity of the ship functions to keep my crew alive." Kirk took a breath. "This has not always been the case. There have been multiple malfunctions throughout the ship's functions, malfunctions which have threatened the safety of my people during various crises.

"My Chief Engineer and myself have studied the multiple malfunctions throughout our three years aboard the Enterprise, and have created an list of the most common mishaps. We have also written up an outline of how best to solve those problems."

Kirk held up a PADD. "All of this information is on the PADDs that I have passed out to all of you, and is easily accessible. Please open the file labeled 'Outline' now."

The directors obediently clicked at the PADDs before them.

"In this file you will see that every single portion of the Enterprise has been divided amongst specific directors according to decks for the upper disc, and the remaining parts of the ship will be split among the Engineering sections. Every director will be the leader of six teams which will rotate according to the labor schedule. There will be a various number of different team focuses: _Infrastructure_, which will focus on repairing the general architecture, _Defense_, which will focus on preparing the shields and weapons, _Lifestyle_, which will work on fixing up the quarters, mess hall, restrooms, et cetera, _Transport_, which will focus on the tranporters, shuttles, shuttle bays, and other forms of transportation, _Engineering_, which will focus solely on Engineering aspects such as engines and other mechanizations, and finally _Outer Hull_. The outer hull will be worked on by a series of specialized teams separate from those that are working on the inside. We'll work from the inside out for maximum time efficiency."

Jim paused. "But not only are we going to finish repairs with efficiency, we plan to focus on repairing with exact, total precision. We will not make mistakes. We will not sabotage ourselves by rushing through this job. Instead, everyone will take the time needed to perfect every single damage. This is the fastest scheduled time for any full-wide starship repair ever undertaken. We must work concisely, but correctly."

He looked around to see the faces of the officers he was putting in charge. Many of them were faces that he recognized.

"Is that understood?"

A resounding "Yessir" filled the room in response.

"Good. Now, you all have your assignments. As I talk about the angles that Chief Engineer Scott and I have devised to try and combat malfunction, think about how you could implement them in your designated section."

Kirk scrolled down his PADD. "The first area of concern – the Jeffries tubes. These are between and go through every single deck, from Engineering to common. These are absolutely necessary for intra-ship movements during an emergency, and so they will be the chief focus of laborers during initial infrastructure repairs: therefore, the Infrastructure team of every unit will take the tubes as first priority. We also have some possible design improvements, as created by Scotty, which you will implement at your own discretion. Hallways and turbolifts come next in order of importance for the sake of efficiency.

"Second area of concern – the transporter. This piece of machinery specifically is vital to the success of so many missions that Starfleet itself has lost count of them. This is also a very tricky instrument to fix, use, and really understand. Many times in the event of a disaster, it malfunctions. During these repairs, I want to narrow down the reasons for malfunctions and correct them, as well as making the controls easier to maneuver.

"Third area of concern – communications. I want shipwide communications constantly up and running during repairs. At no time should any crewman be caught without communications, as it is a danger for them to be at any time caught without access to help. If there is a problem, health or otherwise, the officer must relay it. There have been injuries sustained during repairs before, and it will not happen on the Enterprise. Also, during emergencies communications have the tendency to break down and I would like to make it harder for them to do so by once again implementing upgrades to the system. Scotty has devised several new plans for communications, once again found in the outline file. This will be one of the tasks for Engineering teams.

"These are the basic problems that occur on a regular basis – and we're going to do our best to stop them from happening now. Let's look at this repair as less of a hassle and more of a chance to evolve our Silver Lady."

Jim smiled genuinely, and everyone smiled with him.

"Dismissed."

The directors filed out with their files. And it was good.

((()))

Sometimes Sulu really liked being planetside. This was one of those times.

It had been years since he'd been able to fence properly. When the Captain confiscates your foil after you're infected with some alien disease and go 'moderately batshit' on the crew, you lose the privilege of packing a sword in your quarters. As Sulu quickly learned.

He'd called up some Academy friends from the fencing club, the extremely competitive, championship-winning club that he'd been the captain of, and they got together in a gymnasium to go at it properly.

Going into the closet full of supplies was a blast from the past. All of the uniforms, pristine as usual, neatly hung on a rack. Grabbing his size, it was as effortless as he recalled; to slip into the jacket and guards and helmet and gloves. Around him, the team struggled into theirs, most of them finding that the sizes no longer matched. Hikaru was glad they couldn't see his smile under his facemask. He picked out his favorite sword with care, remembering the feel of the handle in the palm of his hand, rolling it back and forth before snapping the sword up and about in a complicated maneuver.

He was still razor-sharp as he had been in the Academy. Testing out his abilities during warm-ups proved as much. All of the skills he'd beaten into himself were latent, waiting for a chance to leap out and strike.

He was ready.

They'd set up a round robin tournament for their pool, where everyone was playing on a lane against someone else. They had an even number of people, and so it was self-called. Everyone was just there to test their long-forgotten skills and have fun with old friends.

And, in Sulu's case, dominate.

His first opponent was a girl who had joined the team as a freshman cadet when they had been mostly seniors – she had never fenced before, but she had a natural gift. She was innocent and cute as well as deadly with a foil in her hand. Her name was Iraj, and had wormed her way into the hearts of everyone on the team.

Sulu, as the obvious senior and captain, said, "En garde." Everyone raised their arms into their positions, fiercely studying the opponent as they tensed.

"Allez!"

Sulu advanced on Iraj with slow purpose, narrowing his eyes in concentration, when –

"_Halt_!"

Instantly, everyone snapped back to attention. Sulu looked around for the referee, but wait, they didn't have any referees, this was just a pool, and caught sight of the guy who'd stopped them.

He was angry, and standing with arms crossed in the doorway. Behind him was a motley group of cadets, who also looked pretty enraged. Sulu didn't recognize him at all.

"I am the captain of the European Swordsmanship Club, and this space is reserved _only_ for the team!" The angry kid huffed, his face turning red. "Who's in charge of this – this _trespassing_?"

Sulu stood and unfastened his mask. He pulled it off with one smooth motion. "I am."

The cadet's jaw dropped and his eyes popped.

"_Hikaru Sulu_?" In response to the name, the cadets lined up behind their captain recoiled in shock. Clearly Sulu's name had its legacy here. And the captain even knew what he looked like; he was obviously a hardcore fan.

Sulu nodded. "That's me." He gestured to the set-up pool. "We're here for a club reunion. Just a regular pool. It'll take at most an hour. That all right?"

"Yessir, we'd be honored to be able to observe it. And, if it's not asking too much, could we even have some matches with you and your teammates afterwards?"

Sulu grinned. "Of course, if they're up to it." He turned back to all his old underclassmen, who were either raising their eyebrows or smirking. He nodded, snapping his mask back on.

With a swish, the foil was poised just so above his head, and his knees bent into position.

"En garde…"

The fencers on the alleys prepared themselves again, tensing their entire bodies and focusing their minds.

"_Allez_!"

Sulu knew his opponent well, and had sparred against her many times. That had been a long time ago. But still, he saw the rise of her shoulders and the creak of her bones.

He advanced step by step, shuffle by shuffle. Closer and closer, brushing the distance between them with the tip of his front toe.

Fencing was always about the quick response time; there was a lot of slow buildup, lots of gauging the opponent. Then there was the lightning-fast attack – you could miss everything so easily if you bent down to tie your shoes, even if you sneezed. Then it was back to the slow part.

Hikaru's matches had never taken long.

With a snap of his wrist, he dove into the close-quarters space. She had seen him coming, but her parry was too wide, he clanged it aside with the flat of his blade and dragged downwards. Her foil went off to the side, and the tip of his blade cleanly pierced her torso.

Point for Sulu.

Quite a few points later, Sulu emerged as the uncontested, unbeaten winner of the round robin. Even when the current Starfleet fencing team took him on, he wasn't to be touched. Nobody scored on him, not even the captain.

He wrenched off his facemask, and gave a contented sigh. Sulu wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel handed to him by the current manager. He gave her his concise thanks and sat down. Biting off a gauntlet from the fingertip and dragging it off his hand, he checked his messages on his PADD.

There was a message from Captain Kirk, informing the whole crew that the next mission was at the end of this week and that they better get rested up while they could. Sulu knew that they hadn't had much time, but still, a week was really short for the amount of damage they'd sustained. He'd been hoping for more like a month, just to get in some trips around the world or something fun. But hey, Sulu shrugged, he got to fly around the galaxy all the time, so he shouldn't complain. He went back to his inbox.

Spock had sent out a general message about the status of the Enterprise greenhouse, and all the plants within. Sulu looked for his numbers – yes, it looked like most of his section's plants had survived the crash. Good, okay. Any more messages?

Oh, there was one from Chekhov. A nice surprise. Something about a party tonight? Sulu was down with that. He typed up an excited response and hoped it didn't seem too excited. It might seem… too eager? Sulu was always getting too riled up about things. It was a habit he was trying to tone down.

And Sulu liked seeing Chekhov and those guys on leave. A lot. They always had a good time.

He stood, cradling his mask under his arm. Doing some unconscious sweeps with his sword.

Time to get cleaned up.

((()))

Scotty was running around the ship, whistling as usual. He had a massive backpack of tools and handy supplies, and really, all this running around with this much weight on his back was sure to get him in quite a nice shape, he was sure.

There were teams up and down every single hallway, every single station, every place Scotty could imagine. There was professionalism every which way you looked. Most of the officers were building up the scattered remains of the metal beams that made up the structure of the ship. Scotty's job wasn't exactly on the same level as that, but every so often he stopped to lend a helping hand on the way to his next job.

He was expertly flipping though wires that were mangle-tangled all through a Jeffries tube, his next job to be on the transporter, when he caught sight of the Doctor and the Doctor him. He smiled and hopped out of the gash in the side of the hallway to address him properly.

"Doctor," grinned Scotty.

"Scotty," grunted Bones. "How's it goin' down here?"

"Ah, yea. Smooth enough, Ah suppose. Got any pressing needs, Doctor?"

"Well, I'm getting Sickbay restocked, but really I need to get a helluva lot of the machines in there fixed up right. Figured I'd go to you."

Scotty creased his brow, the grin disappearing under a light frown. "Ah have direct orders to take th' transporter as me first priority far naew…"

Bones' head did not drop a bit, and his shoulders did not sag. "I know it's pretty busy down here, sorry for imposin'. Just send some men up when you get the chance." He turned to get back to the turbolift before someone else called for it.

"Oy, oy!" Scotty caught his shoulder. Bones turned around with wide eyes.

"Ah've some tahyme t' spare – " Scotty paused. " – Doctor."

Bones did not suppress a smile.

"Y'know, you don't always have to call me Doctor, Scotty," said Bones as they walked down the hallway together.

"What should Ah call ye, then?" asked Scotty curiously.

"Hmmm." Bones actually didn't know. "Uh, well, um, I figure my name? Or, Jim calls me Bones."

"Ah, so, Ah should call ye Bones?" Scotty beamed. "Here, Ah'll test it. Top o' th' mornin' t' ye, _Bones_." It came out like _Baewns_.

Bones wrinkled his nose. "Hm, maybe not." It sounded weird coming from Scotty's mouth. Maybe he'd get used to it, maybe not.

"Haew abaewt… McCoy?"

He shook his head. "Too formal. I mean, _I_ call _you_ Scotty."

"Aye…" Scotty thought hard.

Bones stepped into the turbolift, Scotty beside him.

"Leonard?" Bones's head shot around to see Scotty hesitantly looking at him from the corner of his eye, barely meeting his gaze. Even softer, "Len?"

Only his family had called him by his first name.

Only his wife had called him Len.

And he'd never seen Scotty looking so shy and unsure before.

Bones' mouth went dry. He gulped almost unnoticeably.

"Why don't we…" Bones scratched his head to hide the fact that he might have been blushing. What was he trying to say? 'Stick with Doctor?' No. Nothing like that. "Um…"

"Aye. Haew abaewt Ah call ye…" Scotty grinned. "Dobharcu?"

Bones' eyes nearly popped out of his head. A burst of laughter accompanied them. "_Doe_-er-chew?"

"Means 'otter' in th' land o' th' Scots. Also sounds a wee bit layike Doctor."

"Ha, uhm, I think I'll pass for now."

"Slanaighear?"

"Sla – bless you."

"Means saviour or healer."

"Oh. Uh, hmm."

"Luchorpan?"

Bones raised an eyebrow. "That sounds an awful lot like leprechaun."

"Thass wha' i' is."

He snorted. "No way."

"Hmmm. Ah'll think abaewt it some more then an' get back t' ye, Len. In th' meantime, Ah'll call ye Doctor. Deck seven."

Then Scotty started going on about repairs, of which Bones only understood parts and pieces. Scotty spoke bluntly enough that he got the gist, though.

It was only after the turbolift shuddered into motion, stopped, and opened its doors that Bones finally realized that Scotty had, off the cuff, called him Len.

He stubbed his toe on some debris.

((()))

Chekhov always got parties together for dinner and alcohol. It was almost a way of life, not to mention a rite of passage to be his friend. He even had a special booth at the most popular Starfleet officer bar; the owner actually kicked people out of it so Chekhov could reserve it. Tonight's reservation was at nineteen hundred hours, six people, for dinner and drinks.

They arrived as a group, having met on campus and walked over.

Chapel had already gushed about her upcoming date to anyone who would listen, and Rand and Uhura were more than happy to congratulate her and squee about outfits and all that jazz. Well, to be fair, Rand did most of the squeeing, while Uhura had smiled good-naturedly. Sulu had never been very good at decoding girltalk, but the rate they were talking seemed way too fast for anyone, even Spock, to translate. Maybe Uhura could if he asked, she could translate anything, but then, she was a girl, too. He gave up even attempting to follow along with _that_ particular conversation.

He started talking with Riley instead about their plants in the greenhouse. Riley still had a square left, but most of his plants had been utterly destroyed. Sulu offered some of his base plants for a sort of startup intervention thing, which Riley happily accepted.

Chekhov just skipped along at the front of the pack, bubbling with happy energy. He was _so_ ready to get wasted, Sulu could tell.

When they got there, they sat down immediately. Even though there was a lengthy line, one that passed outside the door and down the street.

Sulu made a point of eating a lot of food during dinner, because he always got drunk too easily.

It didn't help.

After the second round, he was already smashed.

Chekhov couldn't understand how someone could drink so little but still have such extreme reactions to such diluted alcohol. Of course, he was also (unofficially) the best drinker on the Enterprise, drinking anyone under the table, and he could never understand why people couldn't match his prowess in a field.

Not that Hikaru was inept, because he was truthfully very skilled. Especially in astrophysics. But in drinking, Chekhov saw that Hikaru still had much work to do.

"Paaaavel…" Hikaru pinched on Chekhov's shirt, eyes fluttering and head wobbling. "I'm drunk already." He pouted, disappointed.

"Da, Hikaru." Chekhov put his hand over Hikaru's reassuringly. "Da."

Sulu relaxed back into the red leather of the booth.

Chekhov turned back to the conversation going on in front of him, his thumb still rubbing over Hikaru's knuckles under the table.

"The effects of the _drama_ at the trial are hitting the side of the defense this week."

Uhura was dominating the spoken word, as usual.

"You know what happened to Finnegan's lawyer? Mendlesson?" She grinned and saw the huge response from the group, everyone closing in with interest. Nobody knew, but they all desperately wanted to.

Chekhov hmm'ed and made a guess. "Kidnapped unt thrown off cliff by a meesterious alien spy who eez goink to kill ze Prime Meenester uff Malaysia?"

Rand gasped, Riley snorted into his glass, Chapel giggled in a ladylike manner, Chekhov held a straight, serious face, and Uhura raised her disdainful eyebrow. Sulu was watching a fly buzz around and couldn't care less in his drunken state. But enough about him.

"No, Chekhov," Uhura sighed, "much more exciting than that."

She bent down, her elbows sliding onto the smooth surface of the table. She swirled the tinkling ice back and forth in her liquor.

"As you probably don't remember, when all hell broke loose in the courtroom, Mendlesson was on the side of where the majority of the shots were aimed and he flopped down on the floor like a dead fish immediately.

"The thing is…" She took a sip, just to keep them on their toes. "Mendlesson hit the floor _before the officer started shooting_."

There was a silence. At the table that was famous for being especially rambunctious. Chapel, Riley, Rand, and Chekhov just stared at Uhura, and the rest of the bar's noise drowned out into the buzz of inconsequential static.

Sulu ruined the moment a little bit by yawning, but everyone carefully ignored that.

"Soooo…" Rand dragged out. "That means…"

"That means," Uhura affirmed, "that Mendlesson knew about it beforehand."

"Knew what, exactly?" Chapel's brow furrowed. "Knew Finnegan would break? Knew that security officer would shoot? What did he know?"

Uhura's eyes sparkled playfully. "That's the question."

"There's no doubt that he had to know about the shooting," Riley proclaimed. "Or else he wouldn't have taken cover."

"Unt ze seegnal for eet," Chekhov observed. "But deed he know ze true depth of Finnegan's plot, eez ze qvestion."

"Yes, and that's exactly why he's been taken into custody and subjected to questioning."

Chekhov tilted his head to the side. "Unt…?"

"_And_… there's nothing to be gained from his statements. They're all addled and illogically thrown together. Really, he won't speak truthfully and is trying to come up with an intricate lie for us to fall for."

Chapel turned to Rand, who caught her glance. They both turned back to observe Uhura. "Nyota, have you been interrogating him yourself?" asked Christine.

"For most of today," confirmed Uhura.

"Girl, you've gotta cut loose sometime!" exclaimed Rand. "All work and no play when we're all supposed to be on leave is a _sin_! Leave it to someone else once in a while! You've earned it! Good thing you at least came to this little shindig, huh? Tomorrow night let's go out on the town, just us three. Whaddya say?"

Grinning, Uhura accepted. "Of course, Janice."

"Good, good! We'll have to go shopping, downtown, yeah? Go through all the new shoe fashions that we've missed out on! It'll be a ball – and there'll be so many new clothes to choose from, we've passed over quite a few spring lines. And jewelry, of course, can't leave that out. Maybe look at some watches for you, hmm Nyota?"

She nodded. "I was also thinking I'd get a haircut, too. Do you know a good stylist?"

Rand practically spasmed. "Of course I do, you'll look lovely with any cut, you know that, don't you, Nyota? What are you thinking of getting? A perm?"

Chapel had to interject, "A _perm_, darling?"

Rand flipped her hair huffily. "I know, it's a bit… passé, but I think it would look amazing on you, Nyota."

"Nyota, as your loyal friend and colleague, I would never allow you to get a perm." Chapel spun her slim black straw in her drink.

"Actually I was thinking of a pixie cut along with a volumizing treatment." She glanced form one friend to the other. "Opinions? Thoughts?"

"Lovely idea, dear."

"Oh my _gawd_, that's _fantastic_, Nyota! With your features, you would not only pull off the pixie, but make it your own!"

Uhura sat back, satisfied. Rand continued to babble about other things like makeup and purses, to which Chapel sometimes added her own unique spin.

"You see, Chekhov, our ladies are so concerned with looks…" Riley sighed. "You know, you girls talk about fashion so much, but…" He gestured into the air. "There is no substitute for beauty like a pair of starry eyes. And that is something you can't fake with products. Agreed, Chekhov?"

"Hrm. Eet eez deefeecult to say; I sink zat eyez could probabwy be mechanized unt altered wif ze proper technology…" Chekhov pulled a stylo from his pocket and started scribbling away on a napkin. "Eef I could just…"

Riley sighed. "We've lost him. But as I was saying…" He looked around, but nobody was listening. He turned to Sulu.

He strongly emphasized his points with wide hand motions. "You know, a woman should not be… _made up_…"

Sulu looked at him unfocusedly, and that was more than enough to spur Riley on.

Somehow, it became a debate. Rand heard part of Riley's speech in one of her pauses for breath, and became enraged at the audacity of a man to _dare_ insult femininity. Her face was flushed and her words slurred, but her points on the difficulties of being a sexual, objectified _object_ in this man's society today were quite clear.

And Riley responded with various points on what men really looked for in women, and how materialism and primping could not truly compare with inner beauty, and how women who are shoulder-deep in the world of appearances are only becoming victims and perpetrators of the sexist standards set to them by the very pigs of men that had demanded it of them in the first place.

It was a drunken argument that they'd all heard before. It would go on for the rest of the night.

Uhura signaled the waiter, who bustled over. She ordered another round of drinks. Chapel nudged her and lowered her voice in a quiet tête-à-tête.

Chekhov, ardently bent over his calculations on reflection on concave surfaces, gave an unsatisfied hrmph. He turned to Sulu and grabbed his chin, pulling his head up towards the light. Sulu blinked owlishly, confused.

"Eexample," Chekhov explained. "For zis eye problem zat I am workink on."

"Kay," whispered Sulu, his eyes scrunching up in a smile, still meeting Chekhov's gaze.

This, Chekohv had to stop and study more closely. Somehow, the minute reflections of the light that was hung above them added to the particular tint of Hikaru's eyes and the particular way which he had scrunched them culminated in one of the most stunning displays of eyes that Chekhov had ever previously observed in his uneventful life.

Narrowing his eyes, Chekhov calculated the exact angles of all of the lights in the vicinity that affected the eyes in question and how they interacted to form the demonstration before him. He took in the slow blinks, instantly deducing the pattern and speed of the shutting eyelids, as well as the geometrical, rounded curve of the iris.

He bent a little closer, focusing solely on the problem of why Hikaru's eyes were shining like his name implied – the sun. As he scooted forward, the brown of Hikaru's eyes, from far away barely distinguishable from the deep black pupils, became obvious in their golden-brown sheen. He catalogued the hue for future reference, though he felt as if he had never quite seen brown this way before. Maybe it had to do with the infinite layers of iris, alternating in all sorts of wondrous colors, from blue to green to yellow to red to blue again, uncountable in their thin, melded film, that could only culminate in this breathtaking color with the blessing of nature.

Hikaru blinked according to his algorithm, and Chekhov caught a glimpse of his eyelashes; they were black and silky, tips gleaming in the soft blaze of barlight.

Chekhov didn't realize how close he had come to Hikaru's face until their noses brushed together.

He was still holding Hikaru's jaw fast.

Sounds interrupted his blank thought process. It had almost seemed completely still around him, as Chekhov had leaned in. Now he was suddenly aware again of the clink of glasses, the babble of customers, the thuds of the footsteps of waiters, the laughter of the bartender. But he was still fixed on Hikaru's eyes. He was still only an inch away.

His friends hadn't noticed anything, it seemed; Rand and Riley were still attacking each other brutally with erupting decibels that would shake the foundations of Mother Russia, and Uhura and Chapel were talking about something on the other side of the table together, something Chekhov didn't hear well enough to understand.

Chekhov didn't move. He was torn, frozen.

He wanted something, desperately, but he didn't know what it was.

Sulu blinked again, his eyelids drooping shut against his will.

It was like a switch was flipped in Chekhov's brain. His free arm reached around to encircle Hikaru's back, pulling his entire body closer, lips barely brushing Hikaru's –

When he got a tap on the shoulder. He turned, a bit disgruntled, to find Uhura there.

"Chekhov, if you want to make out with Sulu, you should probably wait until he's sober," she whispered into his ear.

Chekhov pouted, sticking up his lower lip, but he nodded grudgingly.

"Why don't you take him back to his quarters on campus, huh Chekhov?" She smiled. Chekhov vaguely noticed that Chapel was right behind her, grinning knowingly.

With a little help, Chekhov tugged Sulu out of the booth, and they got on their way to lumbering back to the dorm.

Just the two of them.

((()))

"Jim! You look terrible."

Bones strolled around the Bridge as if he'd been born there. Right up to the Captain's chair.

Jim's teeth flashed in a grin. "That's what you always say."

"But this time, I may have to forcibly sedate you," said Bones with a no-nonsense tone.

"You always say _that_, too."

"I'm not joking around here. I'll do it."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Jim waved his hand dismissively. "But to the point. How's Sickbay, Bones?"

Bones crossed his arms. "It's currently being restocked with an ample amount of supplied that should last us up to five years."

"You do know we only need two more years of supplies."

"That hasn't stopped us from running out of five years' worth in three."

"Point taken. And your tools and cots and testing equipment? How's that doing?"

"All better than ever, Jim. I pulled Scotty out of Engineering for a half hour to fix everything."

"And how's he doing?"

"…Better than ever, seems like. Though I need more sessions to really evaluate him. I'm not sure how deep the pain goes from Mira's death, Jim. I'll need more time with him."

"Sure, sure." Jim's eyes clouded with sadness for a moment. Then the moment was over. "Right, so we need to make sure the crew is fully rested before setting off again, and we also need a medic on call for any injuries that could be sustained during repairs. So I need you to stay on the Enterprise for the rest of the week, Bones. That okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Jim stood from the command chair. "Let's go grab some dinner. Then I'll sleep, I swear."

"I'm keeping you to that."

"You always say that."

"And I always mean it."

"Touché, monsieur."

The turbolift shut its doors.

"Speaking of a torturous duel to the death, where's Spock?"

Jim laughed. "Oh, he's in the greenhouse going over all the plants and experiments. Doing his thing as Science Officer."

"And he's exhausted, too, or is that just you?"

"Yeah, he's tired, but – " Jim stopped and raised his eyebrow. Bones was smirking. "Hm. So you know."

Bones rolled his eyes. "Of _course_ I fucking know, goddamn it."

"Well then… How?"

Bones rolled his eyes again. "What d'you take me for? I'm a _doctor_, goddammit, not a goddamn chunk of wood. I can _see_. I ain't _blind_. Ain't _dumb_, neither."

"All right, all right. So you know."

"Yep."

Jim was silent for a second.

"Then…" He looked up at Bones. "What do you…?"

He swallowed, unable to continue.

"Dammit, Jim…" Bones rolled his eyes a third time. "You two lovebirds are about as cute as goddamn ponies prancing the fuck around. Don't ask my opinion on it _ever_ fucking again."

Jim smiled. "Right. Gotcha. Noted. Affirmative. Copy that."

They walked down the hallway to the Mess Hall together in step.

((()))

End of Part 18

tbc

((()))

_Author's Note_: Woot. Some real Chulu action there near the end of the party. Plus I may be a shipper of Rand/Riley, which I never actually considered before I wrote this. Interesting… What would that be, Raley? Randy? Rind? Riled? They don't have a very flattering choice of wombos.

In other random news, I wish I could just copy-paste my thoughts into writing/drawings/sequences. There's just so much to type out sometimes, and it takes a really long time to do properly. This time was a bit easier than the trials, but still. Same concept.

And hellz yeah, updating on time! Maybe even early! Whoa! :D

Thanks for sticking around, yo. Might as well type up a review to get my creative juices flowing… ** shameless prodding **

Some inspirational questions to get your review on the review-o-meter to 100%:

_Do you hate Mendlesson? Why? Do you enjoy the fact that he is now in prison and being ruthlessly interrogated?_ (Because I TOTALLY do.)

_Are you wondering about this Roger Korby character, and do you remember the episode that he's from? Does this make you suspicious of him?_

_Do you like Scones?_ (uh, YES.) _How much?_ (…Too much.)

_Which situation struck you as the most romantic?_ (I liked… the one where… oh, dammit, all of them. ** blushes ** Though I do like rereading Chekhov and Sulu's scene during the party…)

_Do you want the author to hurry the fuck up and get to the good actiony stuff on Colony IX already?_ (Sort of. But then that would be a lot of work, and I'm lazy… :D)

_Lastly, do you give a holy canoodle for Giotto? _(I don't seem to, as I've completely forgotten him for the most part.)

May these questions invigorate your reviewing abilities and allow much to be typed.

~happysquid08


	19. Of Meetings and Metaphors

A/N: HARRY POTTER PART TWO HOLLAAAAA! Fuck yeah, Harry Potter. I dressed up as the Whomping Willow. And the movie. HOLEE SHIT. Anyway.

Hope this makes you feel a little better, KHAAANN! :D

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 19: Of Meetings and Metaphors

((()))

The screens all over the Enterprise blinked with an incoming video message. Sitting at her station filing her nails, Rand clicked to accept it. Chekhov's face came on, and she smiled. His enthusiastic grin was infectious, as usual.

"Hello, these eez your nawigator Chekhov! Today ve vill be settink off for ze star system Zanabar, vhere Colony XI ees located, unt havink deeplomatik talks vith zem. Ve leave een vun hour. Make sure yoo are cleered for duty by Sickbay before zat. Sank you for your time."

The video ended with a wink. Rand exited the comm. And got back to her nails.

She was a Yeoman; she didn't have anything to do until the Enterprise set off into deep space. She just took care of people's various living needs; she didn't shoot phasers or talk space politics. Rand knew that some would think her job boring, but really, she had all the time she needed for rest and relaxation. Plus it was perfect for her needs as the queen bee of all the gossip on board.

Rand prided herself on being up to date on any developments in the romantic department on this ship. She even had a few rumors of her own floating around, even to the point where some people truly thought she was _going steady_ with the Captain. Oh, were _they_ deceived. Couldn't they see that Uhura was cheating on Spock with Kirk?

Rand shook her head with a derisive grin.

She popped her gum.

((()))

Scotty had been running around the entire ship for an entire five days now, job after job after job. He hadn't had any time whatsoever to do anything with anyone, and had been hard-pressed to find time for sleeping or eating. He'd tried to fit them into the same time slot, but eating while sleeping is a skill reserved only for the truly talented. As he quickly observed in his first few trial runs.

He compensated for choosing to sleep by eating as he went on his rounds, constantly carrying around a bag of sandwiches. Like now, as he took these few quiet moments in the day to stuff his face full of the meats and vegetables.

He figured that this is what the Silver Lady must feel like when she's dry of antimatter: empty and waiting to devour a mountain of the stuff.

"Ready to fill her up, sir?" Scotty's communicator crackled.

He crumpled up his paper napkin as he finished it off. "Aye, lad, th' antimatter tank is prepared for ye. Give our Silver Lady her fix."

"Yessir!"

Scotty stood by the tank, munching on his last bite, and watched the swirl of antimatter build up to the brim. There were no problems, no finicky leaks or summat like that. And there was more than enough fuel to keep the Enterprise going for at least another three months. Of course, he'd tell the Captain that they only had enough for two months, just to be on the safe side. Scotty never liked waiting until they were on empty to get more antimatter in the tank, which the Captain sometimes did.

Besides, when _that_ happened they were usually marooned on some random planet that had suspicious people on it. Suspicious people that happened to have antimatter and held it hostage for odd demands.

Scotty had never particularly liked being marooned on random planets.

Or having fuel withheld from his Silver Lady.

He checked over his PADD that had updates from all Engineering repairs directed to it, walking through his jungle of Engineering. They weren't totally complete yet; he was still waiting on some minor systems to be fixed before he could report to the Captain that yes, the Enterprise was as fit as galloping galoshes.

Scotty heard scurrying feet somewhere above him. "Keenser!" He called out. "Ye rascal! Ah found ye!"

A green head popped out of a bulkhead.

"Come daewn frum there! Ah've got t' finish off th' repairs and yeh're gonna help me oaewt with 'em."

Keenser hopped from the bulkhead to a station to the floor, right where Scotty was. He grabbed Scotty's leg in a tight hug.

"Aew, ye barmy rogue," said Scotty as he patted his head, ruffling his scales. "Ah missed ye too. Next tayhme, come oaewt an' see me instead o' hidin' off in th' far reaches of Engineering fer th' whole week o' repairs."

Keenser nodded fiercely into Scotty's slacks.

"Right, then. Tis tahyme t' fix summat."

Scotty set off for his next project, while Keenser followed dutifully behind him.

((()))

There was a horrendous line that branched out of Sickbay's doors and down Deck Seven's newly rebuilt hallway. Most crewmen had neglected their checkups all week and were forced by regulation to be here now.

And if regulation didn't get them here, then it was the fear of the Chief Medical Officer's wrath that kept them in line.

It moved fast enough, but the pace wasn't fast enough for the masses of people stretching down the deck. The waiting crowd grew faster for every second that went by.

Bones was well aware of the situation. It happened every single time, right after everyone got back from leave for the next mission.

That didn't make him any happier.

"Dammit, you should know better," he groused to his current patient, Ming Troung, as he scanned their vitals with his brand-new medical tricorder. "Next time get here earlier so you don't have to wait in line."

"Yessir, Doctor."

Bones waved him away. "Alright, get out of my Sickbay, you're cleared." The ensign scuttled out obediently.

He moved to the next one. "You're Johnson, Kelly?"

The female engineer nodded and sat down. He knew her name; he knew everyone's name. But it was always nice to be sure. And asking the question was the force of habit by now. He held the tricorder up and scanned.

"Ms. Johnson, you have a minor deficiency in Vitamin D." Bones grabbed a tube of pills from the nearby medical cabinet. "Take one of these a day and eat some ice cream for dessert."

"Uh, but sir, I'm trying to watch my weight…"

Bones rolled his eyes. The girl was a goddamn stick. "Your body fat is about as low as it can go, Ensign. If anything, you need _more_ fat on you. As your ship physician, I _order_ you to eat ice cream for dessert for a week. No exceptions."

She hung her head. "Yessir."

He huffed, annoyed. "I also order you to be _happy_ about it, Ms. Johnson. You're perfectly in shape, so don't you dare be self-conscious about your weight. I'm your doctor, dammit, and by God I'll make you see sense."

Ensign Johnson hinted at a hidden smile. "Yessir."

Bones motioned at the door as he sat down. "Go on, get. You're cleared."

He signed off on her profile on the PADD on his desk. Then he called into the hallway. "Next."

The Security Chief came in.

"Giotto, how nice to see you," Bones shot sarcastically. "Could have been a little _nicer_ if you'd come in earlier this week, though."

"Sorry Doc, I had – "

"Spare me the excuses, I've heard everything already today. I've been through over a hundred crewmembers already in the past hour and I'm betting a hundred more by the time we have to go. Whether it's a last-minute repair or a family send-off, don't bother. You're cleared, high on the charts as usual. Go."

Giotto zipped out of there.

"Next."

Bones aimed the tricorder at the closed door, just to save time.

((()))

It was always a guessing game between them. Chekhov would tell Sulu the coordinates, and Sulu would guess the systems that they would be passing on the journey. Turns included.

"So we go left past Sirius, right at the Jewel Stars, left by the Paulson nebula, and right of Beta Penthe?"

Chekhov clucked his tongue. "Nyet, _left_ uff Beta Penthe."

"Right, okay. _Left_ of Beta Penthe." Sulu mumbled: "But hey, I got the system, that should count for something. Half-credit?"

Chekhov threw up his hands. "Eef I vas not here, zis ship vould get lost _all_ ze time."

"Hey!" Sulu looked offended. "I can do directions!"

But Chekhov just rolled his eyes. "Da, like Meester Spock can sowersault on ze Bridge. Zere is reason vhy _I_ am nawigator unt _yoo_ are not."

Sulu raised an eyebrow. "This reason wouldn't have anything to do with Russia, would it?"

Chekhov lit up. "Da! Eet's because I am from ze mother country! Eweryone from Mother Russia eez good at finding directions, or zey die in ze bitter cold." Chekhov grinned as he always did when finding another reason why Russians were ultimately superior to all other life forms.

"There's no way to prove that."

"Only ze fact zat ze truth vill out itself een time."

It was Sulu's turn to roll his eyes. "Yeah, just like the Russians created the beret."

"Eexactaly! Ze French copied many sings frum Russia, ewen fashion…"

"Uh huh, right. And the katana?"

"Ze time vill come ven yoo see ze light, Hikaru. Zen yoo vill understand."

"What? Understand what?"

"Ze greatness unt reach uff Mother Russia."

"Maybe by the end of the five-year mission, you'll have also brainwashed me into believing that African tribal dances are the first attempts at – at microwaving breadsticks or something crazy like that."

"Vell, zey are." Chekhov blinked innocently.

"Come on, you don't believe that at all."

"Da, I do." But here Chekhov couldn't help a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Ze dances vere an attempt of ze unciwilzed to call upon zere gods unt help make ze food healthy unt tasty. Unt as far north as Egypt, vere ze bread eez plentiful enuff."

Sulu sounded a little flustered. "Oh, seriously, come on, you don't really, you can't, that's ridiculous." He fidgeted before leaning forward seriously. "…Do you?"

Chekhov full-out grinned, and reached out to pinch Sulu's cheek. "Gullible, nyet?"

"_Very_," answered Uhura over her shoulder, all the way over from communications across the bridge.

Sulu smacked away Chekhov's pinching fingers from his face. Not without good humor.

((()))

Jim munched on an apple. He regarded the briefing room, which was still empty.

Well, almost empty.

It was pretty good, sweet and juicy and succulent. Snappy, like a good apple should be.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "this apple is great. It's got the perfect texture, superb color.

"But the best part," he continued, "is no doubt the _taste_."

Jim tossed the apple into the air and it fell with a satisfying smack back into his palm.

He swiveled in his chair to face Spock. Who was lifting an eyebrow.

"You point, Jim?"

Jim's face slowly turned serious. He took another bite.

Munch munch munch. "But what if…" Munch munch. "…it leaves a bad _after_taste?"

Spock inclined his head in sudden understanding. Had he not had the bond with Jim, he most likely would still have been completely befuddled by what seemed to be rather dull small talk. But as it was.

"It is true that the… _apple_… in this instance is not isolated from other… _fruits_, Captain."

"Yeah, lots of _fruits_ surrounding it. Like _Klingon_ and _Romulan_ fruits."

Spock took a moment to assess the functionality of the ceiling bulkheads.

"Perhaps the metaphor referring to food should be discontinued for the sake of fluency, time, practicality, and sanity, Captain."

Jim grinned.

"Right, I wouldn't want my First Officer going bonkers on the bridge right before a mission."

He stood and aimed, catapulting the apple core to the dispenser across the room in a perfect shot. He fist pumped in a quick celebration of his victory.

"Okay, let's set off and then have an away team meeting. Comm the people we put on the away team and inform them to report to the briefing room as soon as the Enterprise has taken off."

"Understood." Spock stalked to the door.

"Oh, and one more thing." Jim tapped his temple. "Don't cheat on me when we go planetside with some sassy Colony girl. I'll know."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "And I say the same to you."

Jim sent over a cheeky grin just as the doors hissed shut between them.

The door opened a few minutes later, and Bones exploded into the room. He zeroed in on Jim with a vengeance. Jim froze.

"Oh, Bones, how nice to see you." He shot up to his feet and tried to find a way out of this; he'd been hiding out here for a reason. Jim went for the innocent look.

It didn't work.

"Dammit, Jim," Bones pulled out his hypo. "Always have to make this so goddamn difficult, doncha?"

Bones closed in, but Jim just barely parried the hypo with his PADD. He grinned in victory as he zipped to the edge of Bones' range, but his face quickly slackened in shock as he saw the matching grin on Bones' face – and then he saw the other hypo in Bones' other hand, which came down in what seemed like slow motion, intent on its target.

Jim winced, clinching his eyes shut. He'd stepped into a trap.

_Fsssssh_.

Bones barked out a maniacal laugh in triumph.

((()))

Sulu always checked if the inertial dampener was on before take-off. It was sort of a personal, touchy thing. Every ten seconds, he'd check it like a paranoid madman. Chekhov thought it was because on his very first mission piloting a starship, the Narada incident, Sulu had left it on.

That sort of thing stays with you forever. A level of embarrassment few others could comprehend.

The Captain and Chief Medical Officer came in ten minutes after Spock and sat down, Kirk greeting the bridge with a few funny remarks about the weather that was met with hearty chuckles. There were only minutes until the scheduled departure. Everyone was accounted for on the bridge now, and the Captain could give the order whenever he desired.

Right on time, he gave it.

Sulu flicked on the throttle and eased up the thrusters. Chekhov observed Hikaru's profile out of the corner of his eye, when he usually would have been checking up on his own station. It was hardened into intense concentration. Chekhov needed to be patient and wait for exactly the right moment.

The Enterprise shot out of orbit.

((()))

"Okay, I'm starting this meeting, guys, sit down." Jim waved the twenty officers to the table, where they all took a seat.

"So. We're headed to Zanabar. More specifically Colony XI. Where we picked up Slistas and where we believe illicit activities are being performed such as torture and kidnapping. While we are on the planet, our cover mission is to check Zanabar according to regulations to see if it is badass enough to be in the Federation. But really, our mission is to investigate these crimes."

Jim assessed the men before him. "Which means this will be a _stealth_ mission." The men nodded but didn't budge.

He rolled his eyes. "Come on, guys."

They looked around at each other, confused. Except for Spock.

"That means you _only_ wear Starfleet blacks. _No brightly colored clothing_. Got it?"

Some murmured assent while everyone stripped off their uniform colors.

"Every man carries a phaser and _two_ communicators. And I don't want anyone going off alone, anywhere. Everybody has to stick with their groups, okay? Okay.

"Right, speaking of groups. There will be a team that will go down to the planet with me and participate in diplomatic talks and tours. This includes the senior officers of the ship that can be spared. Spock, Bones, Scotty, Sulu, and Chekhov, you're with me. That'll be Alpha."

Jim glanced at his PADD to refresh his memory.

"Beta is Poole, Rodriguez, Zheng, Isshin, and Miller. Gamma is Yorik, O'Leary, Orono, Reilly, and Harper. Delta is Cortes, Kelley, Petranoff, Delacour, and Kasting. Beta through Delta will not engage in diplomatic activities, but will scan the planet for any signs of suspicious activity and a base while putting on a façade of observing the planet for environmental readings and cultural practices. You know, the official stuff."

Jim stood up smoothly and clicked on a wall screen. "Okay, so on the first day, Alpha is in the capital city here, Beta is in the next city to the east, Gamma is down south, and Delta is to the west. We'll keep these basic positions as we move across the whole populated side of the planet."

"Sir?" Cortes half-raised his hand.

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"How long do we have on the planet?"

"We have a week of diplomatic talks scheduled, so the projected time for a successful mission is two weeks. However, this assumes we find the base at the end of the week. Any other questions?"

Another officer raised his hand. "How are we checking the unpopulated side of the planet, and what are we looking for in the populated area that's different from the unpopulated area?"

"Suspicious activity of the crimes indicated is key. Not only does that give us a clue to the lion's den, it also gives us evidence that will hold up in court. What we're ultimately looking for is the base for the crimes, which will most likely be in a populated area rather than the desert. We're scanning the entire planet for any underground bases, but we may not find it that way. I don't want to waste time."

Kirk looked around, but there were no more questions.

"Right." He clapped his hands together. "Chekhov, take the floor. Tell us what you've found about Slistastostas."

"Yes, Keptan." Chekhov took over a station and input a memory card into it. Visuals popped up. Chekhov selected a particular star map.

"Thees eez ze ion trail lefft by Sleestas ven he escaped ze Enterprise." The trail glowed gold and shot off from Earth.

"Eet runs frum ze orbit around Earth all ze vay to Colony XI." He tapped the endpoint of the trail, which landed perfectly on the planet.

"Howewer, I vas unable to track vere he landed and his current position because ze trail dissipates in ze atmosphere unt he has most likely discarded ze craft."

Chekhov looked around. "Zat eez all, Keptan."

"Thanks Chekhov." Kirk then addressed everyone, "Now, this is another thing we have to be on the lookout here – Slistas. We know he's on the planet. What we don't know is what he's doing and why. We know he's not guilty of killing the man Finnegan set up, but he's still on the run and we're unsure as of this moment if he's an ally or a foe. Keep an eye out for him but do not, I repeat, do _not_ make contact with him until you inform me and I decide what to do from there. Understood?"

"Yessir."

"Good, then get back to your positions. We've got a mission to take care of. Let's do our best to make this mission a success."

Officers filed out and headed back to their positions on the ship.

Jim glanced at Spock as they headed back to the bridge. Jim was very aware that they were only hours away from their destination. His hackles were raising already, in the premonition of a battle. Colony XI would not be a clean mission.

"Well, we're about to take a bite of the apple. Let's hope it isn't rotten."

Spock inclined his head. "…It is unlikely for the apple to be ripe, as the corruption underlying such crimes as interplanetary capture and detainment as well as abuse of prisoners takes the sufficient amount of time for the fruit to become unsanitary and distasteful."

Jim laughed.

"This is why I keep you around."

((()))

Bones ended up walking back to the turbolift with Scotty. He'd not slept for over three days, having constantly worked on repairs, so Bones was more dragging him to Sickbay than Scotty coming voluntarily.

They reached Sickbay, which was empty and quiet except for the harried nurse who was going through a whole stack of PADDs. Bones nodded to her with a greeting, "Nurse Urbanski."

He threw the dazed Scotty on a medical cot, scanning him with a tricorder.

"Naew, Doctor, Ah dunnae have any diseases t' speak of, do Ah?" He beamed, his toes wriggling in the air.

Bones rolled his eyes. "You have the terrible disease of overwork, just like me."

He reloaded his hypo, which was probably pretty tired from all the work it had done today, and gave Scotty the newest vaccines. He also made sure to give him some another stimulant with vitamins, minerals, and proteins.

"You're free to get back to wearing yourself out." He clapped Scotty on the shoulder as he jumped off the bed.

"Thankee kindly, Doctor."

Scotty headed back to Engineering with a spring in his step.

Bones knew Scotty's burst of energy was from his second shot, but he preferred to think it was more because Scotty liked to see him.

He sighed at his stupidity and went back to refilling all his hypos.

((()))

Chapel's shift was scheduled to start soon. She waltzed out of her room, down the hallway, to the turbolift, through the crowd on Deck Seven, through the doors of Sickbay. She dazedly relieved another nurse who was doing a ridiculous amount of paperwork, sending all of the completed medical forms over communications.

She took a seat at her desk, her eyes focused on a dream rather than reality. Her hands zipped through her work without her and finished everything pretty quickly. She had had a lot of practice in this area, and it showed.

Click, click, beep. Click, click, beep.

She was half an hour early.

"Chapel?" Bones was there. She turned her head towards him, unfocused eyes barely taking him in, with his bemused face. There was a faint beeping in the background. Chapel knew that beep.

He was scanning her.

"Yes, Doctor?" asked Chapel dreamily.

"What the devil is the matter with you?"

"Nothing is wrong, Doctor." There were practically stars in her eyes as she sat forward, her chin held up by her elbows on her desk. She looked like a child.

"Chapel…?"

"Nothing… There's nothing…"

The tricorder beeps sounded like they were lightyears away.

"Chapel, I order you to respond. What is going on with you?" The Doctor's voice hardened in seriousness. It was louder now, right in front of her, cutting aggressively into her ears.

Chapel looked around at him. Almost as if it was the first time she had seen him there. It was as if she had just been pulled forcefully back to the Enterprise.

"Doctor."

"Nurse. What's going on with you? What's the matter?"

There was a long, tense silence. Doctor McCoy was waiting for some kind of response. She could barely think of words to describe her situation, but they were bubbling up. And as they reached the surface of her mind, she remembered all over again and was bowled over by the enormity of it all.

The look in her eyes was full of joyful disbelief as she righted herself.

"I'm _engaged_," she said.

((()))

End of Chapter 19

tbc

((()))

_Author's super-awesome life-changing note_: woot. Chapter. Almost on time. A little short, but this is mostly A to B stuff. Pretty straightforward.

Yay for upcoming action! Boo for no recent Action. You know what I mean. ;)

You ready for some shit to go down? I am. Let's go Enterprise crew!

Oh, and like any other starving artist, I like seeing the review counter go up… :D Think you can do it? Not just anybody can leave a review… it takes something special.

By the way, HARRY POTTER. How'd you like the last installment? :D Personally, it drew so much emotion out of me that I loved it even though I had things to complain about. But mostly, the stuff I complained about was in the book, so it wasn't the movie's fault. Some of the stuff they put in that wasn't in the book made me laugh like a crazy person… Voldy hug, anyone? Oh man, I've been talking about it ever since I came out of the theater. If you haven't seen it… Go do it. Now.


	20. Of Scares and Swigs

((()))

Technical Difficulties

Chapter 20: Of Scares and Swigs

((()))

Bones methodically drummed his desk in pained frustration, his fingers hammering against the enhanced carbon tabletop one after another. Either his calls weren't going through or _someone_ wasn't answering their comm.

He'd had it up to _here_ with those goddamn comms. If it were up to him, he'd load them all up in a pod and crash the motherfucker into kingdom come.

Unfortunately, it wasn't up to him.

The call went to message again. This was the trillionth time, goddamn it. He clicked it off angrily, sighing and slowly standing up. Hesitantly, he inched to the door, trying to muffle the noise of his footsteps, and peeked around the corner.

Chapel was still there.

She wasn't working on anything in particular, as Sickbay had pretty much closed up all operations and finished all needed paperwork. No, she wasn't really doing anything at all. Sure, she was sitting at her station like normal, and she was doing shit like applying makeup and filing her nails every so often. But she wasn't really _doing_ anything. Nothing at all.

A bead of sweat trickled down the curve of Bones' spine in fear.

He continued to watch for a moment more, watching her stare off into thin air and break out in an empty smile. She flipped her hair carelessly with a perfectly manicured hand, blinking slowly with her mouth hanging partially open.

Her eyes were the blank blue of a dead computer screen.

Bones flung himself away from the horrid sight, back behind the corner from where he'd foolishly dared to emerge.

Leaning there, pressed against the wall in no small amount of terror, Bones thought about his situation.

One, something was terribly wrong with Chapel. Either she was completely batshit insane or she was possessed by an alien. Personally, Bones thought it was the latter. She certainly showed uncharacteristic symptoms necessary for the prognosis.

Two, he was trapped in his office with the exit to Sickbay blocked by Chapel, with no cure in sight or weapon with which to defend himself. He couldn't even reach the tools to _make_ a cure, let alone have one on hand.

Three, his comm wasn't working. So he couldn't call for help.

What could he do now?

Ever since he first asked Chapel what was the matter, he hadn't stepped into the room. He'd just retreated back into the confines of his office, where she hadn't yet penetrated. For now, Bones assumed that he was safe here.

He could try to sedate her, in the midst of a confrontation. But that might provoke the alien to attack, to go on the violent defensive. And Bones certainly didn't want that; not only would he be at risk, but so would Chapel's body. Being controlled by violent aliens was a tough toll on the victims, which Bones knew all about.

Instead of that, then… Bones was thinking maybe a distraction would do the trick. Divert the alien's attention with something unique from Earth, make a dash for the door, maybe he'd make it in one piece. The only problem was he wasn't quite sure what would best distract this particular species. He thought about its particular sensitivities.

It had said Chapel was engaged, so it would probably be interested in romantic stuff. Or maybe since the alien was inhabiting Chapel, Chapel's preferences would guide it? Either way, Bones was gunning for something girly and stylish.

He decided on a particular red smoke, one that issued into the air in the shape of a heart. It was a clever little thing, and had been wasting away in his upper drawer for the last couple of years. He figured the size of the smoke art – on the side it was labeled as being two meters wide and one meter tall – was big enough to get the alien's attention and give him enough cover to escape Sickbay.

It had been a gift, probably from Jim. Jim always re-gifted crappy trinkets that he got from girls he wasn't interested in, and those gifts usually found their funneled way to Bones. Usually Bones cursed the fact that he had to take in more crap – he was a packrat if anything – and bemoaned the new, useless clutter. He was glad one of them had actually come in handy.

Okay, the plan. Bones was going to escape, get to one of Chapel's friends who could talk sense into her, which at this point would be Uhura, since Rand wasn't the type of girl for sense, and bring them back here to try to get Chapel back to the universe of the sane. If that didn't work, Bones would sedate the alien-infested Chapel using Uhura as a distraction and try to fix it.

Bones knew that this wasn't exactly the opportune moment to call Uhura off-duty, because in less than eight hours they would be at Zanabar and starting off on a new mission from hell. But he also knew that it was necessary to exorcise this new demon of Chapel's. Stat. Whatever it happened to be.

Bones pressed the red heart-shaped button.

He rolled the tube through the door.

A massive, three-dimensional heart exploded into Sickbay. It wrapped its tendrils through the air, expanding, covering itself in more and more red smoke that issued from the tube until it filled itself in. The smoke coiled and roiled unceasingly within its set boundaries.

Bones took off, hidden behind the rounded wall of the smoke. As he just made it to the door, he looked back. Through a tiny window of clear air, he glimpsed Chapel's face. He saw her first reaction to the smoke art.

Her smile was empty, her eyes were dead, her teeth were sharp, her body was lax. She stared up at the smoke like she was hypnotized.

Bones tumbled through the opened Sickbay door out to the hall. He sprang immediately into a standing position and didn't spare a second to relax. He sprinted for the turbolift.

"Bridge," he barked to the damn thing.

It shuddered into motion, shooting upwards.

Goddamn communicators. Never fucking working. He'd have to talk to Scotty about his comms, because they were fucking awful.

Scotty would know how to fix it. He always knew how to get stuff working just right.

Bones had to say, the man was a goddamn genius with machinery. Sure, Jim could build a pod, Spock could fix a sensor, but Scotty knew how to do _everything_ that had any connection to machines. He was a master of the craft.

Sort of like Spock with equations and Jim with strategy. Sort of like himself with surgery. Now that he thought about it, the Enterprise had a great deal of masters walking around on it; masters of all sorts of useful things.

The turbolift stuttered to a halt. Here was the Bridge.

The doors whooshed open.

The first thing Bones saw was the blond fringe of Jim's hair poking over the back of the Captain's chair. Then he saw the viewscreen lit up behind Jim's profile, full of dignitaries and politicos. They weren't wearing the Federation insignia.

Looks like he'd have to wait until after this talk to pull Uhura off the bridge. This was, after all, Uhura's job. Communications.

"The diplomatic discussions to take place are much anticipated," said the head honcho onscreen. He looked normal enough, as aliens go. Bright red eyes, but close enough. "My people will be gladdened to know that the talks will be conducted with Starfleet's highest caliber of officer. We will do the best to match the level of your skill and intelligence, to show our highest respect for you as you have done for us."

Jim smiled politely. "Thank you, Mister President. Is the schedule of talks suitable for your council?"

Bones sidled his way over to the communications station. Spock sent him a pointed look, complete with raised eyebrow, which Bones returned with interest.

"Quite suitable. We would in any case bend our previous reservations to accommodate you."

"There is no need."

"To my people, there is no greater need. Well then, Captain Kirk. I wish that your journey is quick and uneventful."

"My thanks."

Bones reached the communications station just as the president nodded with finality. Uhura was busily going over channels and rechecking everything for protocol's sake.

"Captain."

"President."

The screen blinked off.

Uhura busily shut down half her station. Click, click, knob, click. Finally her activity slowed to a halt as she set up the last of the automatic sensors.

"Bones, how nice to see you when you aren't wielding a hypo." Bones whirled around; Jim was grinning up at him from his chair. Jim never minded when Bones barged onto the bridge. Which he routinely did.

"Jim, I need Uhura in Sickbay." His urgent tone made Jim frown ever so slightly at the edges of his eyes. Uhura whipped around in her chair.

"What is it, Bones?" Jim stood and locked his hands behind his back.

"Nurse Chapel." Bones took a breath. "She's…"

"Lieutenant, accompany the Doctor to Sickbay immediately." After issuing his orders, Jim plopped back down.

Uhura jumped up and the pair of them shot towards the turbolift.

He explained on the way down.

"So Chapel's gone batshit or she's been taken over by another alien. My plan is – first, you talk her out of her insanity. If that doesn't work, you distract her and I'll sedate her. Understood?"

"Yessir." Uhura was tense. Bones knew she was probably freaking out about Chapel underneath her calm exterior.

"Questions? Comments? Concerns?"

"What are the signs?"

Bones scratched his chin in thought. "She's…different. I have never, in the entire three years we've been working together, seen her this way. Chapel is usually the most put together, practical, and purposeful person I've ever met." His voice darkened. "Right now, she's sitting at her desk, mooning at the smoke art I threw at her, her mouth catching flies."

Uhura looked at Bones in shock. That was not the Christine Chapel she knew.

"Is she… How did you conclude she was taken over by an alien? Here, at the heart of Starfleet operations? How do you _know_?"

Bones' mouth tightened into a grim slash. "I don't."

Uhura looked at Bones in wonder.

"I usually don't know what the goddamn hell is going on, Lieutenant. Not until everything is figured out a second before everything fucking explodes. I just deal with it as best I can." Bones muttered, "Can't believe you don't know this after three years of working on this ship. Fucking crazy shit happening all the fucking time."

In response to this rather weighty statement, though Uhura was never one to lack words, she had to struggle to find something to say. "…How do you make medical decisions when you're unsure of the diagnosis?"

Bones scrunched up his nose. "Ain't nothing a man can't do with a trusty tricorder and healing secrets straight from the Deep South."

On that note, the turbolift opened and the pair of them sprinted down the hall to the Sickbay doors.

Inside the room, Chapel wasn't at her desk any longer. Bones stared at the blank space in fascinated horror – _damn, the alien's gotten loose onboard_ – until Uhura tugged his sleeve. He turned in her direction, looking quizzically at her, but Uhura was staring at something on the other side of the room.

Bones followed her gaze.

There was Chapel, crouching in the middle of the room, just there. She was holding the smoke art tube in one gripping hand, drilling her eyes into it as if it was the most mysterious thing ever invented.

And yet, Bones thought, it was as if she was completely unfocused, as if her eyes weren't really seeing anything.

Uhura and Bones glanced at each other. Bones jerked his head, indicating that they should both advance.

Hesitantly, Uhura stepped forward.

"Christine…?"

Chapel froze, her fingers tightened on the tube, her eyes narrowed. Her entire body tensed, reminding Bones of a wounded animal.

He'd had a lot of practice dealing with 'wounded animals.' Trying to mask his movement in the shadow of her vision, Bones made his way in slow centimeters to the drawers of hypos. Sedatives were in there.

Uhura took another step, almost in range. "Chris…?"

Chapel's gaze flickered slowly up Uhura's form, finally landing on her eyes.

Bones quietly slid the second drawer open, and selected a hypo blindly. From all the years in this Sickbay, he knew it was a sedative. He knew his home base, his territory.

Laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, Uhura kindly addressed Chapel. "Chris, what's going on? Are you sick?"

Bones shuffled around the desk, careful to make no sounds. Now he was behind the two of them.

"Nyota, darling…" Chapel's voice came out softly, as if from very far away. Almost as if it was from a dream.

Bones was only a meter away.

"Christine… what is it?"

Now he was right there.

"_Nyota_…"

Bones raised his hypo in preparation for the strike.

"I have to tell you the _news_!" Chapel leaped to her feet, grabbing Uhura by the shoulders. There was a certain spark in her eyes now.

Bones jerked back in surprise.

"You know that Roger Korby guy I was telling you about, the one who I went on a couple dates with over the leave this week? Well, _let me tell you_, Nyota, I want you to hear it from me." Chapel gave a moment for it to properly sink in. "We're _engaged_."

Uhura's mouth dropped in its sudden slack. "_Whaaaat_?"

"I know, it's all moving so fast!" She trotted over to her desk and grabbed her PADD. "Look at some of the messages we've been sending each other over the past couple of hours, too! Aren't they _romantic_?"

Chapel was chattering away. Uhura caught Bones' eye with a look that said, _I got this. Mission under control. _Then she turned back and chirped along with Chapel.

Running a hand over his bedraggled face, Bones left them to it.

He was too old for this shit.

((()))

Speaking of being too old for this shit.

Bones stood in front of his mirror, adjusting the last few medals onto the front of his dress uniform. He stabbed his finger on one of the sharp pins, eliciting a quick curse. As he stuck the bleeding finger into his mouth, his other hand flung over to his bedstand, fumbling for the med kit he always kept on the second shelf.

Goddamn dress uniforms, goddamn medals with pins, goddamn diplomacy.

Even with only one hand, he got it all fixed up in a jiffy, as Scotty would say. With the quick help of a regenerator, his skin healed over the cut that the Pin of Death had mercilessly inflicted in less than a second.

"Goddamn pins." Bones fixed up the last of the tassels and medals without further injury to himself. There was more than one reason he hated accepting more awards, and this was one of them.

He straightened up and inspected himself in the mirror. The burned hole at the front breast pocket was invisible now, all patched up. When he'd gotten shot during the last ambassadorial mission they'd been on, he'd thought it was the last time he'd ever have to wear this stupid, ornate thing. But no. Here it was again, another bringer of bad luck in his life. Not that it looked bad on him, no. Bones would actually admit to the fabric being of high quality and the cut to be perfect.

If a little difficult to move around in. He tugged at the uncomfortably tight collar, which was simultaneously cutting off his air supply from the tight fit and weighing his neck down from the large metal awards clipped there. He'd have to have another talk with Jim about going on away missions in these ineffectual, uncomfortable uniforms, mark his words…

…And he'd also have to talk to Jim about giving him the awards in the first place. Bones was never what you'd call receptive to attempts of the congratulatory nature.

His medals tinkled together as he shifted his shiny black shoes into sight. The shoes were top of the line, made from a rare species only found in the dark caves of southern Berelli. Bones wasn't one to dissuade from finery and quality when he came across it. Besides, he'd shot those goddamn space rats himself. He'd sort of earned them; might as well use them.

There wasn't a single shine out of place on his polished boots, just as there wasn't a single unexpected crease in his slacks. His dress shirt was the main concern here: it had everything that could and probably would go wrong. All his medals, the ones that could fall off and disrupt something vital or could unhinge and stab him unawares, were all potential dangers. The discomfort of the collar could also impinge on his awareness of his surroundings or his response time to a clear emergency. Nothing else seemed to hold dangers, but Bones always knew that danger lurked behind every sparkle of every gleam of every button, every flourish of every fold. Clothes could be just as dangerous to wear as hostile aliens to trick.

With a comb and a fluid motion, Bones combed his hair into place one last time.

He regarded his reflection.

This could be the last time he'd ever see himself unscarred. Might as well take advantage of it.

His features were all regular, normal. Well, not exactly normal. He didn't have any large, dark shadows surrounding his eyes or bloodshot irises. Bones was more rested than usual, it seemed. And his cheeks had more color in them. And he was fully shaved; no shadow of any hour was in sight. He was as clean-shaven as the day he was born. The angry, hard lines that had seemed carved into his forehead just a week ago were softened to mere hints of figure, the wrinkles disappearing into tight skin. Apparently this leave had done him good.

Hopefully he'd get through this mission to see what the next leave had in store for him.

He picked up his fully restocked medkit and a recharged phaser before heading out.

((()))

There was hustle and bustle in the transporter room. Jumpsuits flocking all over the place, pressing buttons and flicking pegs and twisting knobs, each one doing his duty and thinking he was the most important man on the ship.

Bones was clearly not feeling very kindly towards them at the moment. In fact, he was especially angry with them all at the moment. The little shits, making this evil contraption weave its infernal scheme around them all.

Goddamn jumpsuits. Goddamn transporter and its goddamn function.

Bones was definitely not hyperventilating, and he was also not gripping onto the shoulder of an unlucky jumpsuit for support. The private wanted to whine about it, but he thought better of it just in time.

"Bones, you're terrorizing the jumpsuits again." Jim sounded too damn happy.

"Dammit, Jim. No, scratch that, damn _you_, Jim."

"_Someone's_ got some serious pre-beaming jitters today. Wake up on the wrong side of the ship this morning?"

"Wish I didn't wake up at all," he muttered.

Jim smacked him on the shoulder playfully. "Then where would I be? I'd have to sign all these _forms_ and do all this _paperwork_ and get a new CMO and all the rest of it."

Bones rolled his eyes. "How terrible for you."

"Yeah, it would be. Just awful. You'd be making so much more work for me."

"Wouldn't want that."

"Nope." Jim grinned. "It's just a regular beaming, Bones. Nothing'll go wrong. I trust the transporter with my life."

"Yeah, for every single goddamn mission when you have to be beamed up at the last goddamn second before your imminent doom. Someday it isn't gonna work right on time. Tell me how that works out for you."

"Well, it has so far. And if it didn't work, I'd find some other way to keep on surviving until it did."

Bones rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

He stepped up on the platform with Jim when the door opened and the other officers came in.

"Mornink Keptan!" Chekhov chirped excitedly.

"It's a fine day, isn't it, Captain?" Sulu grinned a little crazily. He always got a little too excited for swashbuckling away missions of this caliber.

"Top o' the mornin' t' ye, sir."

Jim smiled at them all. "Morning guys."

Scotty took the place next to Bones, examining him for a moment. "Doctor. A wee bit o' th' wash maey do ye some good, eh?"

Bones forced down a laugh, but a chuckle still came out. "Yes, it would."

Scotty subtly held out a small silver canister.

Bones took it gratefully, nodding conspiringly.

Just then, Spock came issuing through the doors.

"Doctor McCoy, I find it distinctly unwise to partake in an alcoholic beverage directly before an away mission of this importance."

Bones' eye twitched. He _would_ fixate on that particular detail in the room full of bustling activity.

"It's a balm for the human soul, Spock," said Bones out of his gritted teeth. "And I happen to need some embalming at this very moment."

Spock turned his raised eyebrow to Jim, who nodded it off. Jim knew how serious Bones' problem was, and he gave Bones some leeway with his deepest fears.

Besides, it wasn't like Bones was going to do any talking during this part of the mission. He was just there to look pretty and take notes on how creepy people were down on the planet and walk around with the tour group.

Yeah, Bones _definitely_ needed this swig.

He took a gulp before handing it back to Scotty. It was strong stuff. It was already hitting him where it counted, and that small buzz of detachment was all Bones needed to calm the fuck down and get ready to transport.

Everyone was on the transporter, everyone was ready.

Bones closed his eyes for a moment. He was going to beam to the planet Zanabar, and his body would be intact along with the bodies of everyone else and everything would be fine and dandy. Nothing bad would happen and they would continue on with their mission.

Or they would all be broken down into small pieces and perish in the unforgiving vacuum of space.

He opened his eyes.

Bones turned and smiled at Scotty as they began to disappear into flashes of gold. Their eyes met.

"Thanks for the drink," he said.

Then they were gone.

((()))

End of Part 20

tbc

((()))

_Author's Note_: yayy finally finished this part. Took me absolutely forever because I hit a major wall… Hate it when that happens. I think I'm gonna take a small (read - long) break from this story, dabble around in other fandoms and the like. Try to get my mojo back.

Also, I lost my notes for Technical Difficulties… O.o They're somewhere back home. Like, far away. :,( The huge awesome plan that I've been plotting is somewhere at the bottom of a car or something. Overwhelming sadness. Right here.

Hoped you like this chapter enough to actually review after that letdown on the update thing.


	21. Of Dinner and Douches

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Technical Difficulties

Chapter 21: Of Dinners and Douches

((()))

Bones' very first impression of President Zherne was terrible.

Of course, Bones didn't think well of anyone the first time he met them, especially on a planetside mission. He was always inclined to think them sloppy, sickly, and selfish bastards, especially if he could catch telling signs of unhealthy habits. Bones had always had a particularly good knack for spotting patterns in the way people walked and talked that gave away a great deal about their health, mental state, and social status.

It came as natural as breathing for him to take one look at President Zherne and instantly decipher all three. And simultaneously hate his guts.

Zherne had his privileged flock parade into the meeting room before him, all of them dressed in some sort of ornate cloth. Bones leaned in, peering at it.

The starched white cloth the Zanabares wore was sliced into thick, stiff strips and carefully molded around their bodies in three-dimensional patterns, the strips bouncing from the surface of the skin and winding together in intricate knots. He wondered if the stiff, knitted cloth was held up by some sort of wire; the way it was suspended, it looked like it was floating in an anti-gravity chamber. The texture vaguely reminded him of paper mache projects he had done as a kid. The hair was done up in the same way as the dress, loops curving back to the head and twisting together. It was all the same color – a striking, silky black. The effect was shocking – they looked like a row of carefully designed sculptures. He'd never seen anything quite like it.

Just like their clothes, their faces were also a stark white, painted with thick and smooth make up. He could make a comparison to Princess Amidala, but some ancient two-dimensional movie character's make-up didn't really come close to the elegance and detail of this design. Their eyes were firmly cast onto the floor, so Bones could see their eyelids were painted a deep black with small but distinct red flourishes creasing over the edges of their brows onto their foreheads.

All of their eyes were red.

The red paint dancing around their red eyes obviously meant something, but fuck if he knew what. He made sure to memorize the complex pattern it formed. Maybe it had something to their neural pathways? Maybe their ocular perception? Bones was definitely going to grab one or two of them later to talk about it. Not to mention scan the shit out of them with his medical tricorder.

The procession formed a line with their downcast eyes, lowered brows, and hands tightly held together in one fist that came up and touched their foreheads. Obviously they were in a state of supreme deference. Bones wondered if they were being humble because the Federation was there or if they did that everywhere they went. He couldn't tell. He glanced at Jim, who was grinning at the display. Jim always did love getting introduced to new cultures, and this entrance sure was beautiful, like some sort of elegant dance.

The meeting room was large, but more and more and more Zanabarians kept on waltzing through the door. The group continued to fill up the room with graceful, muted movements.

Suddenly, the procession broke in half, the curtain of dancers parting. They all began sliding into shrinking spirals, spreading out and finding their own niches, until they had all frozen in place like statues in a garden. They had left a zigzagging walkway through their ranks that led to the faraway entrance.

Through that entrance came five men that had, incredibly, exceedingly more intricate apparel than the others. Bones was guessing that these five had particular sway and significance. They were definitely higher on the social food chain, anyway. They looked douchey enough.

The five stepped in the same slow and deliberate manner that the initial entourage had, flowing in and out of a V formation until they reached the mouth of the path before Kirk and his Starfleet officers.

There, the five wove together into a multifaceted display of perfect synchronization of movement. Back and forth, they pushed and pulled at each other without touch or sound, each one slowing their movements down and down, slower and slower, lower and lower. They made a half-moon pattern on the floor. Once their knees sank onto stone, they froze with the rest of the procession.

For a moment there was silence.

Then Bones heard the smart click of expensive shoes. He knew instantly that it was President Zherne. He tried to look for him in the crowd of the mystical train of the entourage, but the zigzag of a line spanned the whole goddamn depth of the whole goddamn room. He could only see the barest glimpse of movement in between the folds and loops of the Zanabares dress. A smidgen of black here, a sharp outline of a pointed shoulder there.

As President Zherne wove his way through the path through the frozen dancers, Bones caught more and more fleeting glimpses of him through the maze of people.

Finally, he stepped in direct sight of all of the Federation's highest-ranking flagship officers.

Zherne was powerfully built, his shoulders wide and filled out in his black, modern suit that contrasted with the traditional robes of his entourage. As he passed them, the Zanabares procession began to once again train into dispersing spirals, lining up against the back wall.

He didn't so much as walk as he did parade from one step to the next. Zherne's gait was forceful and assured while smooth, even, and carefully premeditated. His chin was square and jutted from his face in resolution, or, as Bones would like to call it, pigheadedness and over-aggression. He looked straight at them, his blood-red eyes shooting them with an intense look and astonishing color. Zherne had minimal paint on his face, but he had particular emphasis on his red brow markings and black eyelids. He was, Bones grudgingly conceded, very handsome with his sharp red eyes, cut jaw, and carefully crafted goatee. No wonder he was president; Zherne practically oozed competence, charisma, and command.

The five men stood as Zherne passed and flanked him one by one, until Zherne was leading their intricate dance forward once again. Zherne didn't even glance behind him.

He stopped right in front of Kirk with cool pretension. His five flanks halted with him, framing him like the outstretched petals of a blossoming lotus with their smooth and delicate poses.

"Captain Kirk," said President Zherne.

That was it. Bones only zeroed in for a grand total of ten seconds of face-time before he'd had enough. This guy was a total douchebag. Now, Bones may not have had the most empirical of evidence, but he would bet some damn good alcohol on these three facts about this Zherne character: Zherne was fit as a horse, an arrogant son of a bitch, and powerfully domineering. Bones was getting severe control freak vibes.

Bones couldn't wait until this was over already. He fucking hated away missions.

Zherne held out his hand for a Federation handshake. Kirk took Zherne's hand in a strong yet careful grip.

"President Zherne, I presume," replied Kirk politely. "I apologize for the delay in our meeting. That was quite a beautiful entrance, if I may."

Zherne grinned, all his sharp teeth visible. "Thank you, Captain. We Zanabarians take pride in our time-honored traditions."

"And, it seems, for good reason." Kirk gave a sharp smile back.

Their hands couldn't have parted quickly enough. Bones didn't even catch the movement before both their hands were back at their sides.

Jim motioned to the rest of his team. "This is my First Officer Spock, this is my Chief Medical Officer Bones, that is my Chief Engineer Scott, my First Helmsman Lieutenant Sulu, and my First Navigator Ensign Chekhov. They're the best of my crew."

"I am pleased that you would bring along such esteemed officers, Captain." President Zherne indicated the throng of hundreds of Zanabares that lined the room. "This illustrious entourage is of the most esteemed members of the Court." He turned to his flank. "These are the Five Heads of Congress, each of whom represents a branch of the pentapublic."

Kirk saluted. They all touched their clasped hands to their painted foreheads in silent response.

Then Zherne got down to the political mumjo-jumbo. "Captain James Tiberius Kirk, Zanabar welcomes you and all that you have to offer. You speak not only for yourself and not only for your crew, but also for your Federation of Planets, just as I, President Zherne, humbly receive you here on behalf of not only my government but also on behalf of all the Zanabares people. Here in the presence of the Multitude of the distinguished Court, and under the watchful gaze of the Five Heads of Congress, do I hold myself to the oath of harboring you and all of your people whom you protect and revere until you see fit to depart, under the condition that you and your people do no intentional harm and see fit to honor our customs. Do you, Captain Kirk, accept the oath I offer in order for a most satisfactory partnership between our people and by extent our cultures?"

Kirk didn't even blink. "I gladly accept your oath, President Zherne."

Zherne barely tilted his head in approval. "I thank you for your trust in me and all I have to offer. My oath that I have made will be held to me by the Multitude and by the Five Heads, in all of their grace and wisdom. May the Multitude of the Court depart in full knowledge of the truth of both our words and go forth ready to upkeep the Crown's honor in both its general purpose and action, and may the Congress settle and observe the smallest twitch of my thoughts to keep me to my oath most devotedly in sight of gods and men."

The Court then began to file out, each move precise and fluid. The five Congressmen remained, still etched beside Zherne in their immaculate poses.

Then it was only Kirk and Zherne, with five goons each.

Kirk struck first with a smile. "Well, now I feel like we should have brought a fruit basket."

Bones was surprised that Jim even knew what a fruit basket _was_.

Zherne was stone-faced. "That dance was the traditional Zanabares way of presenting an oath of hospitality and peace, at the most reverential and sanctified level." Then Zherne's lip curled up in a playful smirk, a cold spark of humor shining in his eye. "No fruit baskets necessary, Captain. You and your officers are my personal guests; believe me when I say, Captain, _no_ effort would be too small to cater to _any_ of your whims."

Kirk raised an eyebrow. Bones' eyes twitched with the effort against rolling them dramatically at the high vaulted ceiling. Zherne was _already_ trying to bribe them? _Really_?

Thankfully, Kirk started talking before Bones popped a vein. "Mr. President, we would be happy to accept sleeping quarters and meals, but my men here are quite self-sufficient otherwise. We would not want to take advantage of our honored place here by exacting extravagance from you or your people."

Zherne gave a brusque nod. "Of course, Captain." The humor slowly faded away from his sharp eyes, but the smirk remained. He pulled a thin touch screen PADD out of his breast pocket. "Here is a rough planner for your convenience. It has the times of our meals, public and private transportations, and all entertainments throughout the capital Zhigligar. It also has the times of our political talks installed. Feel free to do any activity on the list in between our talks. It also has a complete atlas of the planet, in case any of you were to lose their way."

Kirk took the PADD. "Thank you for putting this together, Mr. President. We'll be sure to use it wisely."

They shook hands again. This time it took longer for them to pull apart. Bones could see Kirk trying to splice and dice Zherne down into tiny pieces with his eyes alone for the entire handshake.

Then Zherne and the five Heads took their leave, and left Kirk alone with Bones, Spock, Scotty, Sulu, and Chekhov. Kirk watched until the door had completely snapped shut.

He took a second to give all his officers a look that Bones and all the rest of them knew meant, _We're being spied on right now so don't say anything straight out. Actually, if we weren't being spied on right now I would be disappointed in Zherne; I mean, all that evilness and cunning and this is the best he has to show for it? _Not_ spying on the Starfleet flagship officers who are all huddled together in one room after attempted bribery? This wouldn't have even gotten started if he was _that_ dumb. I mean, come on._

Bones _might_ have been reading too much into that look, but he was generally pretty damn right when it came to Jim. Bones returned skillfully with a nuanced eye-roll and a jaundiced half-smirk. Jim smirked back at him.

Then Kirk flicked the PADD on and started studying all the complied information. "Now, let's see, we have dinner in a few hours. I was thinking we could go around town, see some sights, buy some souvenirs, drink some alcohol, that kind of thing." _Maybe even do a little spying of our own_. "You guys down? My man Scotty?"

"Aye!" Scotty had already installed stealth recorders into everyone's communicators, so coverage and quality of reconnaissance wasn't an issue. "Goin' oewt an th' taewn, Ah'll taeyke that ordaer, sir!"

"Chekhov?"

"Da, Keptan. Eet soundz wery enjoyable." Chekhov had global trackers set on each one of them, just in case on of them were to, oh, say, get lost. The trackers would send a steady pulse of their location to the Enterprise directly when activated.

"Mr. Sulu?"

"Sounds awesome! Let's do it!" Sulu had programmed thirty or forty new maneuvers into the Enterprise just in case it needed to rain down on key Zanabares sites, avoid planetside fire, or dip in close for an emergency rescue. Not to mention he had brought along a stash of specialized weaponry concealed in his carry-on.

"Bones?"

"Yep, sure, city, the sights, the food, the women, just fine." Bones had packed enough medicine in his carry-on medical case to raise a small army of the dead. You know, just in case. And he had a small but effective selection of poisons somewhere in there, too, though those were perhaps a bit more tightly packed than the rest.

"And you, Mr. Spock?"

Spock had done a huge amount of preparation for the political talks with Jim as well as coding various computer hacks and viruses that could leech into the Zanabares global wireless system to get more information. "Affirmative, Captain."

Jim just gave him a look.

"The planetside activities listed on this planner have a high probability of inducing large amounts of endorphins." Spock said stiffly. "It would indeed be quite the… '_fun_, _frolicking_ _adventure_,' Captain."

"Great!" Jim grinned. "Everyone's on the same page here, then."

He slipped the PADD into his pocket.

"Let's fuck shit up, gentlemen."

((()))

"_Fun, frolicking adventure_, Captain," Bones grumbled. "_City, sights, food, women, just fine, Captain_. Fucking pony rides. Riding a _living fucking carousel_. Really reminds me why I signed up in the first place. Never thought I'd get here. Living the goddamn dream. Living the goddamn Starfleet mission statement."

Jim snorted against his will. "Bones, they're not ponies, okay, they're zhkites, and they look like elephants. Completely different animals."

"Same fucking difference. Four goddamn legs. Dressed up in red goddamn ribbons. Riding 'round in a goddamn circle."

"Except for the whole fact that, oh, I don't know, zhkites are the size of a whale and we're miles into the Zanabarian desert."

"Dammit, Jim, I'm a _doctor_, not a four-year-old girl in a pink cowgirl costume," Bones snarled at his revered Captain while gripping white knuckles on the reins of their shared zhkite, towering over the savannah. "I ain't got no time for this away mission stealth horseshit."

"Ha, see, Bones, when you get angry your comebacks are just pure gold. You know what, maybe I should start writing them down. For posterity's sake."

Bones shot a look over his shoulder. "I know yer grinnin', kid. Shut cher face up."

Jim sniggered. "Now you really do sound like a cowboy, _pardner_ – "

Bones could swear later that he'd just lost control of the reins. It'd be a complete accident… But before he could properly execute his newest plan to make Jim fall to his death, Jim grabbed his shoulder and whipped him to the side.

"Bones," Jim whispered. "I see something." Bones glanced back at him. He'd jammed his binoculars into his face so hard the eyepieces were bound to leave bruises, completely focused on something on the right.

Bones looked that way. All he saw was an endless desert. He looked back over to the left, where he could still see the edge of the Capital. Nothing but sand by his count. Back to the right. Sand, sand, more sand.

But wait – Bones started to see something too. Just on the horizon. It looked like… Bones narrowed his eyes against the harsh sun's glare. It looked like some sort of haze or dustcloud or… Or something cloaked by an energy shield.

"Jackpot," breathed Jim.

Bones paused. "Gettin' the goddamn pony ride still ain't worth it."

"Aw, Bones, you know you love it."

Bones tugged on the reins. He turned the alien pony elephant thing around and got her walking back to the left, where he could still see the Capital cityscape on the far horizon.

"Know what I'll love? Some goddamn alien alcohol. Get me to a goddamn bar, Jim."

Jim sighed. "You'll end up drunk and scanning every patron and trying to force them all to sign treatment forms, won't you."

Bones didn't respond.

"Yeah, nailed it."

"Goddammit, Jim, I swore an oath."

"Well, why don't we put that to the test. Let's meet up with Spock, see how he's doing with his zhkite."

If looks could kill. If only.

"Hahaha, Bones, try to contain your bloodlust there. All right, really. I'm calling the team together. We found something, I don't trust sending that information over the radio, let's meet up in person, et cetera. Head this pony back over to the ranch, cowboy."

Bones grumbled but complied as Jim whipped out his communicator and sent out the general recomm signal.

Thirty minutes later, everyone was kicking back shots in a Zanabarian bar.

"So," Sulu said, "after Pavel had already half-way fallen off, the elephant thing - "

"Zhkite, Hikaru, zhkite," Chekov corrected.

" – the _zhkite_ went crazy. I tried to get it back under control with the reins, but nothing worked, and Pavel was thrown off."

"Feefty meeters – _feefty meeters_!"

"It was more like twenty, actually."

"Who eez ze nawigator heere?"

"Hey, I have an impeccable gauge for distances." Sulu crossed his arms, miffed. "I played darts, and fenced, and now I'm flying a starship! I have _excellent_ depth perception!"

"Da, da, Hikaru," Pavel patted his shoulder. "But yet eet vas feefty meeters." This did little to assuage Sulu's wounded ego.

"Fuck the meters. You all right, there?" Bones asked, glaring eyes honing in on Chekhov for an assessment. His fingers itched for a medical tricorder.

"Da, da," said Pavel airily. "Hikaru leep off ze zhkite like angel, unt caught me beefore I hit ze grund."

Sulu perked up again, squirming, with a flustered look on his face. "Yeah, I caught him. We hit a dune instead of the rocks, and I think we got off easy with only a couple bruises."

"Well, good on ya, Lieutenant. Saves me some trouble." Sulu and Bones clinked glasses. "Bottoms up." They both knocked back their glasses.

"Fifty meters would be an illogical estimate from the height and girth of the zhkite," noted Spock. Chekhov was pointedly not listening, instead idly sketching a mysterious animal resembling an elephant (or a platypus, depending on how you looked at it) on the nearest napkin - along with some motion vectors and complex physics equations.

Spock drew out a pen of his own and began neatly sketching on his own napkin.

One quick formula with one graph. "I calculate ten to forty meters at most."

He pushed it over to Chekhov, who frowned as he read it.

Then Chekhov brightened up. "Ah, Meester Spock, you haff forgotten vun wariable."

Spock stiffened. "Impossible." Bones may have sniggered. Spock may have shot him a nasty glare disguised as a blank look.

Scotty leaned over to take a look, snatching the napkin away from Chekhov. He and Jim looked over it. "Ah dunno, lad, th' science is sound t' me."

"Same," Jim said with a lazy grin. "So tell us, Mr. Chekhov, which variable is Mr. Spock missing?"

"That of ze zhkite's trunk!" Chekhov declared. "Eet's trunk threw me _feefty meeters_!"

Everyone laughed incredulously. Well, except for Spock, who generally refuses to laugh, no matter the time or place.

Spock turned to confirm this, raising one eyebrow. Sulu nodded his head. "Yep, the thing grabbed him and threw him off. _Literally_ threw him off. I'm telling you, it went crazy."

Jim's brow furrowed. "When you say crazy…" He glanced towards Sulu, then Spock. "What kind of crazy?"

Sulu spun his glass on the table under the crown of his fingers. "I'd have to say the mindlessly violent kind of crazy."

"Was there a trigger?"

Sulu frowned. "None that I saw. Maybe Pavel falling halfway off?"

Jim's theories were crashing into each other all of a sudden, and his fingers came up to brush across his lips. "Hmm," is all he said as his eyes clouded in thought. Spock's forehead creased the slightest fraction, as well.

"Was there any previous inclination in the zhkrite that hinted at violence?" queried Spock.

"No."

Jim started tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. Again, "Hmm," was all he said.

"What are the specified coordinates where the incident occurred?" Spock slid a blank napkin over to Chekhov, who grabbed his pen and wrote them down.

Bones poured himself another shot. "Count me out of the conspiracy-fest here. I'm trying to enjoy my goddamn alcohol. Scotty, another shot?"

"Aye!" Scotty beamed as he tipped his glass forward. Bones poured to the brim. "Ta."

"Don't mention it. Sulu? Chekhov?" Both of them nodded. "Jim, you too busy for another glass or two?"

Jim held up his shot glass towards Bones without even looking over, forehead still creased in deep thought.

"And I won't even ask Mr. Chocolate Milk over here if he wants a shot. Spock?" Bones swore he saw Spock's eyelid twitch.

"This is sufficient," said Spock neutrally. "As you should already well know, Doctor, with your _studies_ of Vulcan physiology."

"Oh, long time no see, Mr. _Hob-goblin_."

The glares that shot between them nearly cut the fabric of space-time, they were so sharp.

"Whoa, there, gentlemen," cut in Sulu. "Can't have our senior officers end up accidentally killing each other."

"Vell, eef it vas me, I vould pay to see vho von."

"_Pavel_. You're not helping."

"Vell – vhich do yoo think vould vin? Hmm? Vat, no answer? Scotty?"

"Aye, er. Hard t' saey. Ah think Ah'd choose the good Doctor here, as hae's been waerkin' in the field o' medicines an' healin' arts. Wager 'ee knows a thing or two abaewt takin' men apart, an' quick-like. An' 'ee's treated Mr. Spock many a time, so."

"Wise choice," said Bones. He lifted his glass towards Scotty.

"Hikaru? Come on, come on, eweryvune's choosink."

"Hmmm, well, since I've been put on the spot… I'd have to go with Spock. Sorry, Doctor. He's a lot faster and a lot stronger."

"A most _logical_ hypothesis, Lieutenant Sulu."

"Shut yer trap, Spock, or this hypothetical death match might suddenly turn into a live experiment," snapped Bones.

Spock innocently sipped on his chocolate milk. "Experimentation should be _encouraged_ by the scientific and medical communities, should it not, Doctor?"

Bones muttered darkly under his breath, glaring, until Scotty knocked his arm and said, "A wee shot for t' furth'rance o' medical science, then, Doctor?" Even Bones couldn't quite keep a grumpy face on in the wake of _that_ onslaught.

"Spock." Jim's sharp voice suddenly cut in.

The whole table turned to look at Kirk.

He downed his shot in one smooth motion, setting the glass back down on the table with a muted clink. "Send Uhura these coordinates." He picked up the napkin. "Also include these - " He scribbled down another set of coordinates. " – and be sure that everything is in code."

"Yes, Captain."

"And Scotty."

"Aye."

"You didn't happen to bring along anything… _interesting_ with you planetside, did you Scotty?"

"Aye," Scotty beamed. "Aye, a wee number o' thaengs."

((()))

"Hey Uhura, why the hell does everything on this planet start with the letter Z?" Jim complained into his communicator.

There was an indignant huff on the other end. "This is why you called me? I'm a little busy here, _Captain_. With very important tasks to do that _someone_ has just assigned me. "

"No, seriously, I want to know. What's up with the Z's?"

Another huff. "Did you not read my linguistics report on Zanabar?"

"I did, actually, but I _may_ have skipped over actually learning the native language. _Someone_ can be busy too, you know."

Uhura was silent for a second, leading Jim to believe she was rolling her eyes. "Well, _Captain_, in the native Zanabarian tongue, all nouns are required to start with the letter Z. It separates them from their verb and adjective forms."

"Huh, so every noun starts with Z. All names, too?"

"Yes, since names refer to people, and people are nouns." Jim heard some beeping and buzzing in the background. Uhura was definitely multi-tasking here.

Jim thought for a second. "Is there any noun that doesn't start with Z in their native tongue? Any exceptions?"

Some more beeps.

"Uhura?"

"…I'm thinking."

"Well?"

"There aren't many non-translatable words outside of noun names – " The beeps stopped. "Pentapublic. But that comes from Greek. It's Federation influence from when Colony XI landed."

Jim's eyes popped open. "Anything else? From the colonists? Anything else in the pentapublic?"

"Yes, all of the points on the pentagon, actually; the Conglomerate, Constitute, Court, Congress, and Crown. Oh, and the Crown's Cabinet. Those are all words straight from Standard, even by the native pronunciation."

"So. There is no actual Zanabarian word for any of those, huh…"

"…And _why_ exactly is this call still continuing to bore me? Don't you have a formal dinner with the Crown President in ten minutes?"

"Oh, yeah, there is that. Gotta go – thanks for the lowdown, Nyota!" Jim smirked and hung up before Uhura could snap at him for using her first name. He slid his comm. into his pocket and stood up from his desk, pushing his chair back with the backs of his legs. He crossed his arms for a moment, and contemplated the web of notes and sources spread before him. The papers completely obscured the desktop from sight, with some crawling up onto the wall behind the desk, and some even spread out on the floor.

Everything was heavily encoded, of course. Jim had made up this particular shorthand himself when he was a kid for solving complex problems, and it always served to help him sort his ragingly fast thoughts into something intelligible. Especially when he couldn't just word-vomit it all out because some tricky alien bastards were listening to every scratch of his stylus and every creak of his chair.

Suspicions were swirling around in his mind, and instead of blurting them all out he pinned them down with code. He would usually keep on brainstorming until the web had run its course, but for now he had a dinner to get to.

Still, Jim thought as he glanced down once more at his notes, it felt unfinished. It would probably bug him all throughout dinner, knowing that he could be putting the pieces together much faster instead of wasting energy sucking up to Zherne. The only bright side – the dinner might be another opportunity to collect more data…

Spock was getting impatient and worried. Jim could feel it. He was taking too long to meet up with the others.

Jim sighed into a small smile. His hands slipped into his pockets as he strolled to meet his team.

"Took you long enough, Jim," complained Bones when Jim stepped into sight. "We're probably gonna just make it by the skin of our teeth."

"Yeah, yeah," Jim dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Empires will fall, the party don't start till I walk in, all that stuff. Let's get this show on the road, huh? I want to keep all the skin on my teeth intact."

"Give a smartass an inch," muttered Bones as he grumpily trudged after the group moving quickly down the hall. "But give a smartass a _captaincy_…"

((()))

Bones' mood didn't improve with dinner. In fact, it got marginally worse, if that was possible. He didn't get drunk enough earlier in the bar for this. Seriously, the sniping between Jim and Zherne – shallowly disguised with political correctness, of course – was driving him up the fucking wall. It was like watching over-zealous cadets in Fleet debates all over again.

Need Bones remind anyone ever that he hated away missions with a fiery passion of a thousand suns? This politico bullshit was a serious contender for one of the worst things Bones had to put up with in Starfleet, and this was head-to-head with space diseases and that _fucking_ space pollen.

At least the food was okay. Bones stabbed at his meat moodily with his fork. Some type of roasted alien duck or something. Tasted pretty good, if you were the type that liked mysterious, probably-not-anything-like-duck duck.

His dress-shirt collar was still too tight and Bones was now contemplating taking one of his heavy medals off and sticking the pointy pin into his eye, but he'd still been to away mission dinners before that had been _much_ worse than this. There were no aimed phasers, no poisoned food – Bones had made sure of that with a hidden medical tricorder in his pocket – and so far, no actual verbal threats from their probably totally evil host.

Jim was going on about some story that had happened on the Enterprise this one time or another, obviously trying to get Zherne to buddy up and tell some stories of his own, when Bones' communicator went off. Loudly. _Beep-beep beep, bee-bee beep_.

_Fuck_, he thought he put that goddamn piece of shit on silent. And the goddamn thing just kept on fucking beeping. _Bee-bee beep, bee-bee beep_.

Flustered, his hands scrambled for his pockets, trying at least to smother the buzz with one hand and trying to pull the comm. out with the other.

_Bee-bee beep_.

"Fuck," he swore under his breath. He finally got the goddamn thing out of his pocket and turned it off.

But it still kept on beeping! _Bee-bee beep, bee-bee beep_. Bones' eyes bugged out and he stared at the evil thing beeping in his palm. It was _clearly_ off. Why the hell did it keep beeping?

_Bee-bee beep, bee-bee beep_.

Bones could feel his face heating up. He didn't even want to know how people were looking at him. Goddamit, and in the middle of the first fucking dinner meeting with the President.

The whole table had fallen silent, no doubt staring his way judgmentally.

Bones was gripping the fucking beeping thing from hell really fucking tightly when Scotty plucked it out of his fist, turned it over, and in two seconds flat ripped the battery right out of it.

The beeping stopped.

"Sorry abeaw' tha'," said Scotty, addressing the rest of the table with a bashful grin. "Malfunctionin' communicator. 'S all set to rights."

The dinner conversation started up again with a murmur.

Scotty sat down again, right next to Bones. He twirled the comm. in his fingers before pressing some buttons, putting the battery back in, and turning it on.

Bones held his breath.

It didn't start beeping again.

"Phew," he breathed out. "Thank God for you, Scotty. Need _someone_ who understands these blasted things around."

"T'weren't no trouble, Doctor," beamed Scotty.

After that, dinner didn't seem so torturous. Went by pretty quickly, actually. Even Jim trying to razz him after dinner about the comm. didn't really bother him.

((()))

Back in his guest quarters, Bones scanned over tomorrow's schedule on his PADD. The first diplomatic talk would happen at around 1300 hours after a sightseeing lunch. Then another dinner with the President. Then a tour of the penta-public.

That meant the morning would be free. Maybe tomorrow Bones could follow up on the red-eyes thing that the Zanabares had going on. He was still curious about the whole red eye paint thing from the opening ceremonies.

Bones stripped off his shirt and shucked his pants before heading into the shower. He hummed a little as the hot water blasted against his back. It'd been a while since his last shower with actual water, instead of just a sonic one. He scrubbed his hair, cleaned up. It felt nice getting all that sand out from earlier, when they were at the mercy of sandstorms out in the desert.

He stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist before heading for his suitcase, still humming Sweet Home Alabama.

There was an embarrassed squawk from a corner of the room.

Bones whipped around, grabbing his medical tricorder and pointing it at the intruder.

It was only Scotty. Bones lowered the tricorder. Like it could have done anything, anyway.

Bones sighed into a smile. "Hey, Scotty," he said. "Need somethin'?"

"Er, ahm. Aye?" Scotty fumbled around for his PADD. "Jes' wonderin' if ye'd laike t' grab some Zanabarian sandwiches tomorrow mornin' t'gether. Jes' t' see what thair laike. Faewnd sum places tha' seem brillant."

Bones thought about his tentative plan to study the red eyes phenomenon. That could wait. "Sure thing, Scotty."

"When's a good tahyme?"

"Hm, how about nine hundred hours?"

"Aye, Ah can do tha'."

It was a date.

Bones grinned as Scotty left. He typed it into his PADD as "sandwiches with scotty" and got into his pajamas.

He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He was so out, he didn't notice his door issuing open. He didn't hear their footsteps approach his bed or see their hands reaching for his communicator. And he _definitely_ didn't see Slistastostas leaving the room.

((()))

END PART 21

To be continued…

((()))

Author's Note: This chapter was a doozy. But I'm back in business! Sorry for the long wait. It's the start of an entire arc, here on Zanabar. Hopefully the wait was worth it, idk. The action hasn't started yet, of course. Just wait, it's gonna be AWESOME! I guarantee it.

It's hard to present an entire alien race and their culture in one chapter, so I decided to split it up. Don't judge me, it's hard to make a whole culture up okay. I have more respect for the Star Trek writers and their weird alien races than I did before.

Also, I haven't seen Into Darkness yet! I'm studying abroad right now in Japan and they're really strict about illegal downloads and streaming here. I don't want to get screwed over. So that movie isn't going to impact my story yet. Not until I see it. Also I'm jealous of all of you who've seen it already. :(

Live long and prosper. And review too, that would be nice! :D


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